JADTUTK 


SHERWOOD 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

IDEALIST 


T.  OF  CALIF.  LIBEABY,  LOS  ASUKUiS 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON 


IDEALIST 


BY 

MARGARET  SHERWOOD 

AUTHOR  OF  "AN   EXPERIMENT  IN  ALTRUISM  "  AND    "  A  PURITAN  BOHEMIA  ' 


Nefo  If  orfc 
THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON  :  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
1899 

All  rigbtt  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,   1899, 
BY  THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY. 


Norwood  Prett 

J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  Gf  Smith 
Norwood,  Mats.,  U.S.A. 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON 


CHAPTER   I 

HE  young  professor  walked  swiftly  down 
the  corridor  and  unlocked  the  door 
of  Lecture  Room  A.  A  stream  of 
students  was  pouring  down  the  stair- 
case at  the  left.  A  group  near  by, 
standing  with  books  under  their  arms, 
and  their  hands  in  their  pockets,  eyed 
with  good-humoured  curiosity  the  new  instructor  as  he 
fumbled  nervously  at  the  lock.  Inside  the  room  he  drew 
a  sigh  of  relief.  He  threw  open  a  window,  and  began  to 
pace  the  floor,  in  the  narrow  passageway  between  the  rows 
of  desks. 

The  second  bell  would  ring  in  five  minutes.  Then 
those  eager-faced  boys  would  come  in,  singly,  or  in  twos 
and  threes,  with  their  stylographic  pens  and  their  note- 
books. Those  note-books  were  the  worst  feature  of  all. 
He  had  nothing  to  say,  nothing.  Every  idea  had  left  him. 
He  could  think  only  of  the  line  :  — 

"The  hungry  sheep  look  up  and  are  not  fed." 

He  paused,  one  foot  on  the  platform,  vainly  chasing  back 
in  his  memory  a  rapidly  fleeing  phantom  of  his  first  sentence. 


2138187 


2  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

"Gentlemen,"  it  began,  "gentlemen,  we  —  " 

"  We  "  what  ? 

It  was  not  thus  that  he  had  dreamed  in  bygone  days  of 
his  first  class.  Even  while  wearing  knickerbockers  he  had 
become  aware  of  an  inherited  sense  of  responsibility  toward 
the  world,  and  had  looked  out  upon  life  with  great  serious- 
ness. As  a  child  he  had  walked  up  and  down  the  campus 
among  the  tall  students,  thinking  of  the  day  when  he 
should  be  a  professor. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  when  you  get  to  be  a  man, 
Henry  ? "  a  senior  had  asked  him  one  day. 

"  Teach  you,  sir,"  the  boy  answered. 

"  Worthington's  babe  "  became  a  favourite  with  the  class. 

O 

On  another  occasion  he  had  been  discovered  working 
with  his  father's  microscope,  one  valuable  slide  crushed  in 
his  small  fat  hand.  The  explanation  of  his  conduct  had 
come  with  a  burst  of  tears. 

"I  thought,"  he  wailed,  one  arm  held  across  his  eyes 
to  protect  him  from  the  disapproval  in  his  father's  face, 
"that  if  you  died  I'd  have  to  teach  your  classes." 

A  professorship  was  hereditary  in  the  Worthington 
family.  The  young  man's  father,  grandfather,  great- 
grandfather, had  sat  in  chairs  before  him.  Divinity  had 
been  the  province  of  the  last,  philosophy  of  the  grand- 
father ;  the  father  was  still  professor  of  biology  —  four  of 
them  in  a  row,  like  stepping-stones  in  human  thought. 

"  Gentlemen,  we  —  " 

Henry  Worthington,  Ph.  D.  at  Vienna,  newly  made 
associate  professor  of  economics  at  Winthrop  University, 
took  out  his  handkerchief  and  mopped  the  perspiration  of 
sheer  fright  from  his  forehead.  It  had  remained  for  him 
to  disgrace  his  traditions.  His  stripling  dreams  of  swaying 
men  had  come  to  this  !  He  sank  down  upon  one  of  the 
seats  in  the  front  row  with  a  groan. 

He  was  a  strongly  built  young  man,  of  twenty-six  or 
seven,  with  a  profile  that  looked  as  if  it  had  been  patterned 
after  some  Roman  coin.  The  muscles  of  neck  and 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  3 

shoulders  bore  witness  to  athletic  training.  His  face 
wore  an  expression  of  obstinate  firmness,  not  unmixed 
with  sweetness.  There  was  a  fresh  air  of  youth  and 
innocence  about  him,  and  the  look  in  his  dark  gray  eyes 
denoted  a  reserve  of  fun  down  under  his  shyness. 

Why  "  we "  ?  he  said  to  himself.  What  connection 
was  there  between  him  and  these  lads  ?  He  was  a 
student,  a  recluse,  interested  in  books,  in  ideas,  not  in 
people.  Why  had  he  ever  accepted  the  appointment  ? 
He  could  have  lived  in  decent  penury,  without  his  salary, 
on  the  money  his  mother  had  left  him.  This  lecturing 
was  going  to  interfere  with  his  creative  work.  It  was 
going  to  jar  on  his  nerves  horribly. 

Then,  in  swift  contradiction,  the  hope  and  the  aspira- 
tion of  the  last  three  years  rushed  upon  him.  A  minute 
brought  him,  as  crucial  minutes  will,  the  thought  and  the 
feeling  of  whole  months  of  life.  Here,  here  was  the  op- 
portunity for  which  he  had  toiled  and  waited.  This  was 
the  focus  of  all  his  years  of  thinking  existence,  and  the  time 
for  the  unsealing  of  his  lips  had  come.  He  lifted  his  eyes 
and  caught  sight  of  a  flag,  relic  of  the  Spanish-American 
war,  draped  high  on  the  wall  over  one  of  the  blackboards. 
It  brought  to  him  a  realizing  sense  of  the  task  he  had  to 
do.  He  remembered  the  day  when  the  sight  of  that  flag, 
floating  over  a  consulate  on  alien  shores,  had  given  him  a 
sudden  faintness,  a  throb  of  pleasure  that  was  pain.  It 
was  like  the  quick  touch  of  a  lover's  hand.  To  him  it 
had  revealed  an  undiscovered  passion,  and  all  day  long  his 
feet  had  beaten  time  to  — 

"  O  beautiful,  my  country  !  " 

The  moment  had  given  point  to  a  student's  love  of  mental 
activity  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  the  activity,  and  his  work 
henceforth  moulded  itself  to  an  idea  of  special  service  to 
that  young  country  whose  early  history  had  been  a  prayer. 
A  constant  reproach  against  her  had  been  on  the  lips  of 
the  people  about  him.  America,  said  his  young  German 


4  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

and  Austrian  friends,  represented  a  purely  mercenary  civili- 
zation, whose  root  was  greed.  She  had  sold  her  soul  for 
the  dollar.  To  the  young  man,  who  had  known  only  the 
colonial  traditions  of  his  country,  the  criticism  was  as  ex- 
asperating as  it  was  incomprehensible.  To  him  she  seemed 
a  land  of  loftier  ideals  than  the  old  world  knew,  ideals  of 
freedom,  equality,  justice.  He  had  walked  all  his  life  in 
the  shadow  of  the  Pilgrim  fathers,  unconscious  that  that 
shadow  is  too  short  to  reach  from  end  to  end  of  this  great 
territory.  Henry  had  grown  morbidly  sensitive  in  his 
patriotism,  and  once,  after  a  heated  debate,  had  almost 
challenged  young  Herr  Ruprechtstoettner  to  a  duel,  on  the 
ground  of  insult  to  the  American  flag. 

The  criticism  had  made  the  tide  of  his  thought  set  all 
one  way.  The  principles  for  which  his  country  stood 
presented  themselves  constantly  in  sharp  antithesis  to  the 
social  and  industrial  abuses  of  which  she  was  accused. 
The  purely  theoretic  aspects  of  his  study  ceased,  for  the 
time,  to  appeal  to  him,  and  his  thesis  on  the  History  of  the 
Theory  of  Value  suffered.  He  applied  himself  to  the  study 
of  concrete  problems :  investigation  of  the  methods  by 
which  huge  fortunes  are  made,  and,  on  the  other  hand, 
study  of  socialistic  experiment  and  scheme  that  seemed  to 
offer  a  practical  answer  to  the  question  that  America  had 
tried  —  in  vain,  these  people  said  —  to  answer  for  the  world. 
The  fierce  homesickness  that  assailed  him  now  and  then 
intensified  his  interest  in  the  merely  human  side  of  econo- 
mic investigation.  The  thought  of  passionate  service  pos- 
sessed him.  Mere  student  and  thinker,  he  said  to  himself, 
he  could  find  no  place  among  men  of  action.  He  must 
stand  at  one  side,  with  his  books,  and  watch  the  slow  drift- 
ing away  from  earlier  and  nobler  standards  of  national 
honour.  He  had  clenched  his  hands  at  the  thought  of  his 
uselessness  as  he  paced  the  streets  of  foreign  cities,  until 
one  moment's  sudden  insight  had  pointed  out  his  path. 

He  was  to  be  a  teacher  of  young  men.  It  was  for  him 
to  help  them  learn  to  think.  To  set  high  the  standard  ; 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  5 

to  help  create,  even  in  one  university,  civic  ideals  of  right- 
eousness;  to  urge  in  economic  matters  a  justice  that  did 
not  mean  simply  obedience  to  the  letter  of  the  law^  but 
generosity  in  the  ordinary  transactions  of  life  —  surely  this 
was  a  practical  aim.  The  country  was  safe.  Its  new 
war,  that  war  in  which  chivalry  and  lust  for  power  had 
blended  so  strangely,  was  over.  It  was  for  other  service 
that  the  flag  called  now.  The  crises  of  to-day  were  in- 
dustrial crises.  To  help  root  out  even  one  syllable  of 
wrong  thought  was  an  opportunity  as  glorious  as  death  on 
the  field  of  battle.  The  task  was  great ;  his  arm  was 
feeble,  but  it  was  ready. 

The  sail  into  the  smooth  harbour,  at  the  end  of  the  long 
return  voyage,  had  brought  to  the  young  man  a  suggestion 
of  the  peace  of  a  final  coming  home.  White  sails  and 
shore  and  water  and  the  encompassing  arms  of  land  were 
touched  by  sunset  light.  He  leaned  over  the  railing,  con- 
tent. The  air  was  purer  here  than  elsewhere.  America, 
with  all  her  mistakes,  was  cleaner  yet  than  other  lands. 
In  that  old  world,  which  he  had  left  so  gladly,  the  very  sky 
seemed  touched  with  the  memory  of  old  sins,  the  faces  of 
men  and  of  women  scarred  with  them.  That  flag  on  the 
mast  stood  for  newer  and  fairer  ideas  of  the  rights  of  man. 
It  was  for  the  sons  of  America  to  wipe  out  this  new  stain 
on  the  stars  and  stripes.  To  teach  the  world  a  finer  sense 
of  justice  than  it  yet  had  known ;  to  prove  that  the  law  of 
courtesy  and  kindness  can  be  carried  into  the  business  of 
the  great  commercial  world  :  this  was  the  mission  of  the 
young  pioneer  whose  promise  to  her  sons  of  liberty  and 
equality  had  hardly  been  fulfilled.  To  the  young  idealist, 
whose  eyes  were  dim  with  the  joy  of  coming  home,  all 
good  things  seemed  possible. 

Henry  roused  himself  with  a  start  from  his  revery,  and 
took  out  his  watch.  Three  of  the  five  minutes  were  gone. 
They  had  seemed  a  lifetime.  He  could  not  summon  now 
the  inspiration  of  those  days  in  Vienna.  He  had  meant  to 
be  a  power;  he  had  meant  to  be  the  friend  and  comrade 


6  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

of  his  students,  but  that  was  long  ago,  before  this  creeping 
terror  had  ruined  his  life.  He  rose  and  walked  to  the 
window,  while  a  vision  of  what  was  coming  passed  before 
his  eyes:  the  students  in  rows,  smiling,  nudging  one 
another,  while  he  stood  pale  and  speechless  behind  the 

desk. 

"  No  man,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  «  has  a  right  to 
take  a  platform  attitude  before  his  fellows.  Arrogance 
like  that  should  be  punished  by  the  gods  with  swift  con- 
fusion. The  confusion  has  come  ! ' 

Outside  the  window  stretched  the  common,  with  its 
passing  people,  and  the  crawling  electric  cars  beyond. 
Henry  remembered  that  he  used  to  sit  near  this  window 
in  Philosophy  IX  and  make  pictures  of  old  Professor 
Sloane,  who  was  now  dead  and  gathered  unto  his  fellow- 
philosophers. 

Time  had  avenged  Professor  Sloane  ! 

"  And  it's  good  enough  for  me,"  said  Henry,  grinding 
his  teeth.  "  I've  got  to  expiate  my  past  by  inches." 

He  heard  voices  in  the  corridor.  Was  there  no  way  of 
escape  out  of  the  window  ?  That  tree  a  few  yards  distant 
he  used  to  climb  when  he  was  a  little  fellow.  He  remem- 
bered the  first  time  he  had  done  it,  his  father,  a  trifle  pale, 
urging  him  on.  The  tree  was  beyond  his  reach  now. — 
His  dear  old  father!  The  coming  disaster  would  be  hard 
for  him.  The  motive  of  all  the  boy's  life  had  been  to  do 
something  of  which  that  father  could  be  proud.  He  had 
been  greatly  pleased  with  his  son's  appointment. 

"  Henry,"  he  had  said,  "  for  a  man  of  twenty-six  to 
receive  an  honour  like  this  from  his  alma  mater,  before  he 
has  taught  a  day,  is  unusual.  You  are  worthy  of  your 
grandfather  and  your  great-grandfather.  I  wish  your 
mother  could  see  you  now." 

That  was  the  third  time  in  Henry's  whole  life  that  his 
father  had  spoken  of  the  boy's  mother. 

"  Before  I  had  taught  a  day  !  "  he  groaned.  "  If  I  had 
taught  a  day  they  wouldn't  have  given  me  the  chair." 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  7 

He  wished  that  his  mother  were  here.  He  had  never 
known  her.  Often,  when  he  was  little,  he  had  wondered 
what  it  would  be  like  to  touch  her  dress,  and  he  felt  like 
that  now.  That  curious  new  loneliness  of  spirit  which 
had  come  upon  him  in  his  wanderings,  and  which  the  old 
things  did  not  satisfy,  was  strong  upon  him  now. 

The  bell  rang,  sharp,  vindictive.  The  door  was  flung 
open.  There  was  a  queer  feeling  in  Henry's  knees. 
They  seemed  perfectly  willing  to  bend  either  way,  and  he 
felt  that  he  had  nothing  trustworthy  to  stand  on.  Pulses 
were  beating  in  parts  of  him  where  they  ought  not  to  be. 
He  was  dizzy.  Benches,  blackboards,  the  maps  on  the 
walls,  swam  before  his  eyes,  and  the  desk  apparently 
slipped  away,  receding  as  he  approached.  Surely  he 
was  not  going  to  faint !  That  was  a  disgusting  thing 
for  a  man  to  do.  He  had  done  it  once,  four  or  five 
years  ago,  when  he  was  quite  young.  It  had  felt  like 
this. 

Meanwhile  the  young  professor  mounted  the  platform 
without  a  touch  of  embarrassment.  He  found  himself 
bowing  to  the  students  as  they  entered.  He  smiled  at 
the  slender  boy  in  blue.  That  was  Allan  Hayes.  He 
wondered  if  the  student  with  the  shaggy  crop  of  hair  was 
depending  on  that,  Samson-wise,  to  conquer  learning  by 
brute  force.  There  were  brown  heads,  yellow  heads, 
black  heads.  Thirty-five  pairs  of  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
him.  He  stood  behind  his  desk,  one  hand  resting  on 
John  Stuart  Mill's  Political  Economy.  He  was  conscious 
of  one  thing  and  only  one :  an  overpowering  desire  to 
touch  in  mind  and  soul  these  young  men  before  him,  to 
waken  them  to  vital  issues,  to  make  them  aware,  not  only 
of  the  scientific  aspects  of  their  subject,  but  of  its  bearings 
on  actual  existence. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  we  have  a  year's  work  to  do 
together.  I  am  not  going  to  teach  you  a  dead  set  of 
formulae.  I  have  no  body  of  doctrine  to  impose  upon 
you.  We  shall  study,  investigate,  learn  the  meanings  of 


8  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

* 

some  things,  side  by  side.  Possibly  the  older  scholarship 
was  based  too  much  on  the  idea  that  certain  things  have 
been  settled  forever,  and  are  to  be  learned  as  dogma.  In 
our  new  conception,  to  each  humblest  student  is  given  the 
responsibility  of  an  investigator.  He  must  test,  examine, 
sift  for  himself.  There  is  no  cast-iron  system  for  him 
to  acquire.  Scholarship  means  the  charm  of  pursuit.  It 
is  all  change,  process,  growth,  and  the  truth  we  are  trying 
to  apprehend  is  not  petrified,  but  is  constantly  flying  ahead 
of  us,  like  music  —  " 

The  voice  was  firm,  sweet,  steady.  Enthusiasm  vi- 
brated in  it,  aspiration,  faith.  Voice  and  words  touched  the 
class  with  electric  power.  The  boys  cheered.  That  was 
embarrassing.  He  began  again,  rather  awkwardly.  Did 
the  class  see  his  hands  trembling  ?  He  was  suddenly 
aware  of  the  outline  and  colour  of  every  face  before  him. 
What  was  he  saying  ?  The  exhortation  about  the  spirit 
of  the  work  had  given  way  to  the  outlining  of  a  definite 
task.  Pages  twenty  to  seventy-five  were  to  be  read,  dis- 
cussed, criticised.  Something  had  settled  down  like  an 
extinguisher  over  the  sense  of  power  of  a  moment  before. 
Not  even  the  answering  gleam  in  the  eyes  of  the  sensitive- 
faced  lame  boy  in  the  front  row  could  console  him.  He 
went  on  talking,  quietly  and  very  earnestly. 

He  heard  a  step  outside  the  class-room  door.  That 
quick,  steady  footfall !  It  was  the  most  familiar  sound  in 
the  world  to  him.  He  had  heard  it  beside  his  crib.  It 
had  echoed  in  all  the  days  of  his  life  except  those  winters 
of  study  abroad.  How  he  had  longed  for  it  then  ! 

"  Father,"  said  the  young  man  under  his  breath,  and  he 
bit  his  lips.  They  were  thin,  sensitive  lips  like  his  father's, 
and  he  bit  them  in  the  same  way.  Would  he  ever  rise, 
he  wondered,  to  the  height  of  that  guardianship  ? 

The  students  dashed  out  of  the  room  when  he  was  done 
with  them,  each  swinging  his  cap  to  his  head  as  his  foot 
touched  the  threshold.  Henry  looked  after  them,  with 
the  expression  of  one  shepherding  a  flock.  Then  he 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  9 

picked  up  two  books  and  started  away.  His  father  was 
waiting  outside  the  door. 

"  I  had  to  come  over  to  see  Carter,"  said  the  older  man, 
apologetically.  "  How  was  it  ?  "  he  added,  looking  anx- 
iously into  his  son's  face. 

"  Not  bad.     Going  home  ?     I'll  come  too." 

They  walked  away  in  silence,  side  by  side.  There  was 
a  curious  likeness  between  the  two :  the  same  clear  gray 
eyes,  the  same  firm  lips,  the  same  bold  outlines  of  forehead 
and  chin.  The  father's  hair  was  touched  with  gray,  but 
the  clean-shaven  face  looked,  at  times,  almost  as  young  as 
the  thoughtful  face  of  the  boy. 

Alfred  Worthington  would  have  been  ashamed  to  con- 
fess the  agitation  that  had  drawn  him  from  his  laboratory 
to  pace  the  corridor  in  front  of  Room  A  where  his  son's 
first  trial  was  going  on.  When  they  were  halfway  home 
he  turned  and  said  :  — 

"  Hungry  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Henry,  "  ravenous." 

They  had  lived  together,  thought  together,  felt  together 
ever  since  Henry  had  begun  to  think  and  feel.  In  the 
tingling  sympathy  between  father  and  son  the  dividing 
lines  of  personality  seemed  to  have  disappeared.  When 
the  son  was  moved,  the  father's  pulses  beat  faster.  They 
had  so  little  need  of  words  in  their  intercourse  that 
they  had  almost  forgotten  how  to  converse  with  each 
other. 

As  they  walked  down  Wiclif  Street  their  quick  steps 
gave  to  most  of  the  passers  on  the  sidewalk  a  shambling 
and  undecided  gait.  Turning  at  the  right,  they  entered 
a  passage  marked  Lancaster  Place.  It  was  like  stepping 
into  a  different  country,  as  the  noises  of  the  street  gave 
way  to  silence,  with  a  hum  of  distant  traffic.  A  beech 
tree,  with  haunting  suggestions  of  summer  woods,  guarded 
the  entrance.  The  great  colonial  houses  surrounding  the 
square  lent  the  place  an  old-world  look.  On  some  of 
them  faint  traces  of  lack  of  repair  were  visible,  where 


io  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

paint  was  cracking  on  the  tall  white  pillars,  or  a  loosened 
board  started  away  from  its  place.  Pale  green  moss 
rippled  in  waves  of  colour  over  the  trunks  of  the  trees, 
the  brick  pavement,  the  stone  fences  bordering  greener 
lawns.  There  was  an  air  of  incipient  decay  in  Lancaster 
Place.  It  bore  the  impress  of  a  refined,  hospitable,  gen- 
erous life,  passing  now  into  a  serene  old  age. 

Professor  Worthington  and  his  son  walked  through  a 
high  stone  gateway,  whose  posts  were  crowned  by  great 
balls  of  stone.  Against  the  blue  of  the  sky  stood  out  the 
long,  unbroken  lines  of  the  house,  and  the  dull  red  of  the 
huge  chimneys.  A  tall  hemlock  tree  guarded  the  front 
entrance  on  the  east.  On  the  south  and  west  lay  the 
garden,  full  of  old-fashioned  things,  hollyhocks,  snow-ball 
trees,  spice  shrubs,  cinnamon  rose-bushes,  guarded  by  box 
borders.  Up  and  down  the  garden  paths  a  peculiar  figure 
was  strolling.  It  was  a  man  of  perhaps  fifty,  dressed  in 
a  worn-out  suit  of  brown  and  a  shabby  straw  hat,  a  man 
with  narrow  shoulders,  slightly  bent,  and  the  thinnest  ankles 
that  human  being  ever  had.  He  had  Dante's  profile,  grim 
and  bold,  with  Dante's  lean  and  hungry  look,  and  bright, 
sharp  eyes. 

"  Good  morning,  Alfred,"  he  said,  still  holding  between 
his  teeth  a  dilapidated  pipe  he  was  smoking. 

It  was  Benedict  Warren,  sole  representative  of  the 
oldest  family  in  town,  and  owner  of  the  great  estate  on 
Warren  Street.  He  was  a  bachelor,  with  a  love  for 
books,  a  dislike  of  people,  a  passion  for  his  pipe,  and  a 
sense  of  deep  companionship  with  his  dog.  He  was  also 
a  fisherman,  and — at  least  so  said  the  people  who  saw 
him  go  fishing  on  Sunday  —  an  atheist.  He  was  Alfred 
Worthington's  dearest  friend. 

The  professor  pushed  his  son  toward  this  apparition. 

1  Henry  has  lived  through  his  first  day,"  he  remarked. 

The  visitor  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  smiled. 
It  was  a  singularly  winning  smile,  despite  the  stubble  of 
beard  that  disfigured  his  Dantesque  jaw. 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  n 

"  Leave  anything  to  teach  'em  next  time  ? "  he  asked. 
"  You  young  ones  usually  want  to  do  it  all  at  once." 

"  I  didn't  teach  them  much,"  said  Henry  with  a  smile. 
"  I  just —  " 

"  You  just,"  interrupted  Warren,  "  told  them  that  you 
hadn't  anything  to  say,  but  that  the  subject  is  there,  and 
they  are  at  liberty  to  find  out  what  they  want  to  for 
themselves.  That's  the  way  they  do  it  now.  A  man  can 
draw  anywhere  from  two  to  ten  thousand  dollars  a  year  by 
saying  that  over  and  over.  When  I  was  young,  teachers 
used  to  know  something  themselves." 

He  put  his  pipe  back  into  his  mouth. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Alfred  Worthington. 

The  visitor  shook  his  head  in  silence. 

"  Got  some  news  for  you,"  he  announced  presently, 
with  an  expression  which  he  could  not  prevent  from  being 
a  grin  of  delight. 

His  friend  waited. 

"  Gordon's  going  to  give  five  hundred  thousand  dollars 
to  the  university,  your  department.  Told  me  so  himself. 
Met  him  at  the  bank." 

"Five  hundred  thousand  dollars,"  said  Alfred  Wor- 
thington, slowly. 

The  guest  nodded.  The  professor's  eyes  shone,  and  he 
looked  at  Henry.  His  expression  was  repeated  in  the 
boy's  face. 

The  smile  of  satisfaction  that  marks  the  discovery  of  a 
way  to  have  one's  cake  and  eat  it  too  spread  over  Alfred 
Worthington's  face.  For  years  he  had  been  hampered  in 
his  work  of  research,  and  his  passion  for  science  had  chafed 
under  the  restraints  imposed  upon  it  by  a  badly  endowed 
department.  Science  was  poor  at  Winthrop  ;  divinity  and 
polite  letters  rich.  Yet  the  professor  had  stubbornly  refused 
tempting  offers  from  the  West,  where,  in  brand-new  univer- 
sities, money  gained  by  patent  medicines  flowed  freely.  He 
loved  his  city.  He  reverenced  her  simple  traditions.  His 
family  history  was  here.  His  wife's  grave  was  in  the 


12  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

cemetery.  In  the  clash  between  love  of  science  and  love 
of  the  place  the  science  had  suffered. 

He  grasped  his  old  friend's  hand,  and  wrung  it,  speech- 
less. Warren  was  embarrassed  by  the  satisfaction  that  he 
felt  gleaming  in  his  own  face. 

"  I've  got  to  go  home,"  he  said,  "  and  dig  bait." 

Without  another  word  he  disappeared.  His  huge  mas- 
tiff, Ulysses,  rose  ponderously  from  the  ground  and  fol- 
lowed his  master  through  the  stone  gateway.  Father  and 
son  stood  still  to  watch  the  two  figures  strolling  away  in 
the  sunshine. 

"I  should  think,"  said  Henry,  eying  with  displeasure 
a  little  stream  of  water  that  ran  trickling  through  the  gut- 
ter in  the  street,  "that  Winthrop  might  have  outgrown 
before  this  the  system  of  surface-drainage." 

The  glow  died  out  of  the  professor's  face.  He  turned 
toward  his  son  with  the  dubious  expression  of  one  waver- 
ing between  a  reproof  and  a  joke. 

"  Your  ancestors  found  Winthrop  a  fit  place  to  live  in, 
Henry,"  he  observed.  "  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  is  worthy 
of  you  also." 


CHAPTER  II 

"  La  faccia  sua  era  faccia  d'  uom  giusto, 
Tanto  benigna  avea  di  fuor  la  pelle." 

NNICE  GORDON  was  swinging  in 
her  hammock  at  one  corner  of  the  ver- 
andah. It  was  an  October  day,  and 
the  air  was  warm.  Part  of  the  time 
she  watched  the  sunlight  on  the  marshes 
east  of  the  bluff  where  the  great  house 
stood.  Part  of  the  time  she  scrutinized 
her  father's  face,  and  the  colour  in  her  gray-brown  eyes, 
with  their  flecks  of  green,  changed  as  she  did  so,  the 
pupils  expanding  and  growing  small  again.  At  each  step 
in  her  process  of  thought  she  touched  the  floor  with  her 
foot  and  gave  herself  a  little  push.  She  was  wondering 
what  she  could  find  to  talk  about  when  her  father  dropped 
his  newspaper.  It  was  all  new  and  embarrassing,  and  her 
red  under  lip  quivered  wistfully.  She  was  a  stranger  in 
her  father's  house,  and  very  homesick,  not  for  the  school 
she  had  left,  but  for  some  undiscovered  place  that  would 
make  her  want  to  stay. 

Mr.  Gordon  finished  the  seventh  page  of  his  paper  for 
the  fourth  time,  and  turned  back  to  the  first,  which  he  had 
read  twice  before.  The  large  sheets  seemed  to  offer  him 
protection  in  the  face  of  this  new  presence  in  his  house. 

13 


i4  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

Annice  had  gone  away  a  child  of  thirteen.  In  her  vaca- 
tions he  had  seen  her  usually  in  the  presence  of  other  peo- 
ple. What  was  he  going  to  do  with  this  tall,  reserved, 
beautiful  young  woman,  whose  long  skirts  rustled  on  the 
piazza  floor.  What  was  she  thinking  of  him  ?  Did  she 
appreciate  all  he  had  done  for  her  ?  Did  she  realize  all 
that  filial  gratitude  ought  to  offer  for  benefits  so  great  ? 
The  face  that  he  saw  in  his  furtive  glances  over  his  news- 
paper, showed,  at  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  graven  lines 
of  character,  betokening  a  nature  not  at  the  mercy  of  cir- 
cumstances, but  thoughtful  and  able  to  resist.  Not  that 
Mr.  Gordon  saw  the  lines.  To  him  every  human  being 
was  a  child  up  to  the  time  of  becoming  a  parent,  when 
blind  obedience  was  changed  for  rule.  His  general  notion 
of  the  present  relationship  was  summed  up  in  the  words, 
"  Children,  obey  your  parents  in  the  Lord,"  yet  he  felt 
keenly  the  need  of  more  minute  directions  in  dealing  with 
this  changeable  being,  who  looked  at  him  with  serious  eyes, 
but  whose  laugh,  in  distant  portions  of  the  house,  had  a 
sound  of  joy  incarnate.  Was  she  afraid  of  him  ?  The 
thought  both  pained  and  gratified  him.  He  yearned  for 
liking  and  approval,  but  the  respect  due  a  father  must  also 
be  his. 

There  was  a  look  of  energy  about  Mr.  Gordon.  The 
tall,  thin,  broad-shouldered  frame  seemed  too  important  for 
the  chair  in  which  he  was  sitting.  He  had  a  determined 
jaw,  and  sharp  eyes,  shaded  by  grizzled  eyebrows.  The 
face  wore  a  kind  of  mask,  the  gray  hair  and  beard  lending 
it  a  look  of  benevolence.  The  self-congratulation  of  the 
successful  merchant  was  there.  There  was  in  it,  too,  a 
kind  of  self-consciousness,  as  if  its  owner,  standing  off  and 
looking  on,  had  a  continual  appreciation  of  Samuel  Gordon 
in  his  several  offices  of  father,  merchant,  and  pillar  of 
society.  He  expected  much  of  himself,  saw  himself  large, 
grasping  only  the  ideal  aspects  of  his  actions  —  and  he 
always  had  his  clothes  made  too  big  for  him. 

The  girl  in  the  hammock  looked  past  him  and  the  collie 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  15 

sleeping  at  his  feet,  out  to  where  the  October  sunshine 
touched  the  sea.  The  old,  haunting  fear  that  beauty  must 
be  wrong  came  back,  intensified  by  her  present  thought, 
and  something  glistened  suspiciously  on  her  long  eyelashes. 
Her  path  lay  straight  ahead.  She  could  see  it  to  the  very 
end  of  the  long  years.  Whatever  happened,  she  would  do 
her  duty.  The  time  she  had  half  dreaded,  half  longed  for, 
during  her  school  years,  had  arrived  at  last.  She  had  come 
home  to  stay.  A  passion  for  self-sacrifice  belonged  to  all 
the  women  of  the  Gordon  family,  and  life  had  humoured 
most  of  them  in  the  matter  of  gratifying  it,  as  it  was  doing 
now  with  Annice.  Perhaps  it  was  the  vision  of  blue  water 
through  this  mist  in  her  eyes  that  brought  a  sudden  breath- 
less sense  of  wide  spaces  and  far  horizons  cut  off  by  this 
narrow  path  where  she  must  walk. 

It  was  self-sacrifice,  she  confessed  to  herself.  She  did 
not  understand  her  father.  Always  in  their  relations  some- 
thing had  jarred.  A  wave  of  penitence  for  childish  wrong- 
doing swept  over  her.  It  was  her  fault ;  it  always  had  been 
her  fault.  Looking  now  at  the  stern  face  with  its  shadow 
of  gray  hair,  she  thought  she  detected  in  it  a  capacity  for 
suffering  of  which  she  had  never  been  aware.  The  thought 
of  pain  always  turned  her  into  one  quivering  nerve  of 
sympathy,  for  she  had  an  instinctive  fore-knowledge  of  the 
path  she  had  not  travelled. 

u  You  may  dipend  upon  it,"  Mrs.  Grady,  the  washer- 
woman, had  once  said  after  the  death  of  her  son,  u  that 
Miss  Annice  has  had  a  great  sorrow.  Maybe  wan  of  thim 
furrin  masters  in  school  got  her  heart  away  from  her,  or 
whativer,  but  she  knows,  she  does.  Thim  that's  been 
there  understands." 

The  sparkle  had  died  out  of  Annice's  face.  She  was 
nerving  herself  to  her  great  resolve.  Here  there  was  no 
instinct  to  guide  her,  and  she  groped  her  way  slowly  among 
the  commandments  to  find  the  right.  Sternly,  unrelent- 
ingly she  would  devote  herself  to  her  father  always.  Pic- 
turing the  future,  she  saw  herself  becoming  thinner  and 


16  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

thinner,  the  servant  of  her  own  iron  will,  growing  old 
without  having  lived.  A  tear  trickled  down  her  pretty 
nose  as,  with  the  hungry  asceticism  of  youth,  she  luxuri- 
ated in  the  thought  of  her  denial  of  self.  She  was  of 
Scotch-Puritan  descent,  and  her  conscience  was  the  only 
theatre  she  had  ever  had.  If  a  touch  of  melodrama  min- 
gled with  the  action  pictured  there,  her  passionate  desire  to 
find  out  and  do  the  right  was  none  the  less  real. 

In  her  sudden  emotion  she  said  to  herself  that  the  old 
feeling,  half  fear,  half  disapproval,  with  which  she  had 
regarded  her  father  had  never  had  any  basis.  She  had 
misunderstood  and  had  been  unreasonable,  always.  Now, 
in  atonement,  she  would  make  his  home  a  paradise  for  him. 
She  would  even  get  up  at  this  minute,  go  over  to  him,  and 
kiss  him.  There  was  a  queer  little  thrill  in  her  knees  as 
she  said  this.  Looking  shyly  at  him,  she  caught  one  of 
his  stolen  glances  toward  her,  and  she  sank  back  in  the 
hammock  with  the  motion  of  a  wild  animal  trying  to  hide, 
for  those  shrewd  gray  eyes  disconcerted  her.  No,  she 
could  never  kiss  him  that  way,  when  he  did  not  expect  it. 
The  orthodox  kiss  at  night  he  demanded  as  his  due.  This 
would  only  startle  him,  and  he  might  demand  an  explanation. 
Perhaps  it  was  foolish  to  do  any  but  practical  things.  Through 
the  meshes  in  her  hammock  she  saw,  curling  round  on  her 
father's  black  coat,  a  long  white  thread,  and  she  wished  she 
dared  take  it  away.  The  housewife's  instinct  stirred  in 
the  girl  whose  mother  and  grandmother  and  great-grand- 
mother had  proved  their  love  by  darning  stockings  and 
mending  clothes.  At  any  rate,  she  could  make  the  house 
beautiful.  She  rose  and  tiptoed  softly  away  to  the  great 
parlour,  entering  through  one  of  the  windows  cut  low  to  the 
piazza  floor.  Her  father's  eyes  followed  her  as  she  went. 
Her  motions  startled  him.  Spite  of  the  fashionable  gown,  he 
saw  the  figure  of  his  mother,  the  serious-eyed  Scotchwoman, 
who  had  carried  the  milking  stool  and  called  home  the  cows 
on  a  little  up-country  farm.  There  was  the  same  quick 
energy  of  step,  that  movement  as  if  the  world  were  too  full 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  17 

of  things  to  do,  And  Annice  had  gone  away  without 
speaking  to  him.  She  had  spent  an  hour  and  a  half  on 
the  piazza — he  took  out  his  watch  to  see  —  and  had  said 
no  word  to  her  father.  A  look  of  injury  settled  down  upon 
Mr.  Gordon's  face.  He  patted  the  collie.  Jock  growled. 
He  was  a  dog  of  many  moods,  and  to-day  he  did  not  wish 
to  be  disturbed.  His  master  felt  that  growl,  and  he  settled 
back  in  his  chair  with  the  wrinkles  deepened  between  his 
eyebrows.  Unappreciated  !  Misunderstood  !  It  had  always 
been  that  way. 

Annice  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  parlour,  dismayed. 
Make  this  beautiful  ?  Only  a  fire  could  undo  its  present 
hideousness  enough  for  that.  Everything  in  the  room  was 
huge.  Great  cabbage  roses  disfigured  the  carpet.  The 
girl  remembered  how  her  mother  had  begged  for  a  quieter 
pattern  and  had  been  overruled.  To  Mr.  Gordon  there 
was  but  one  right  way  in  things,  and  that  way  was  his. 
He  had  selected  chairs  and  sofa,  the  largest  that  could  be 
had  for  money,  covered  with  the  deepest  plush.  A  marble- 
topped  table,  tombstone  always  over  the  grave  of  beauty, 
occupied  the  centre  of  the  room.  Everything  had  an  air 
of  being  new.  The  Gordon  palace  had  been  built  ,and 
furnished  only  twelve  years,  and  these  products  of  sudden 
wealth  refused  to  look  as  if  they  belonged  together. 

The  apartment  was  a  colossal  reproduction  of  the  best 
room  in  the  tiny  farmhouse  where  Samuel  Gordon  had 
been  born.  Few  of  the  original  articles  of  furniture  had 
been  preserved,  but  choice  in  the  new  had  been  dominated 
by  the  taste  of  the  old.  What  had  been  dignified  there  by 
poverty  was  vulgar  in  its  ostentation  here.  In  the  expen- 
sive mirror,  the  huge  piano,  the  gilded  ceiling,  was  the 
merchant's  revenge  on  fate,  his  triumph  over  those  early  days 
of  chopping  wood  and  doing  "  the  chores."  Mr.  Gordon 
liked  to  have  about  him  anything  that  had  been  associated 
with  himself  at  any  time.  To  find  suggestions  of  his  early 
life  was  always  pleasant.  On  a  shelf  in  his  own  room 
stood  a  box  containing  a  top  and  some  marbles  he  had 


1 8  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

once  played  with,  and  he  still  owned  a  tiny  account-book 
bearing  a  record  of  the  time  when  he  had  bought  a  ten- 
cent  fishing-pole  for  five  cents.  A  portrait  of  himself  as 
a  lank,  hard-featured  youth  of  twenty-four,  hung  there  in 
the  parlour  in  a  little  group  of  family  pictures,  whose  tar- 
nished oval  frames  had  a  look  of  not  being  at  home  in 
their  present  surroundings. 

Annice  paced  the  floor.  She  hated  the  crude  colours, 
the  sharp  edges,  the  shop-made  look  of  the  place.  The 
lack  of  any  sense  of  fineness  of  visible  things  gave  her  a 
feeling  that  was  like  physical  pain.  She  wanted  curves 
and  soft  shades  that  melted  one  into  another,  beauty  and 
grace  and  harmony.  The  portraits  on  the  walls,  faded  and 
dim  as  they  were  in  their  battered  frames,  were  as  repellent 
as  the  rest.  There  was  her  grandfather's  face,  stern  in 
its  iron  piety.  There  was  her  great-grandmother's,  calm 
and  sure.  To  them  the  ultimate  convictions  of  Calvin- 
ism had  been  terribly  real,  and  they  had  ruled  their  lives 
in  scrupulous  uprightness  whose  root  was  fear.  Obedience 
to  a  law  as  strict  as  that  of  the  Jews  had  led  to  action, 
now  sublime,  now  grotesque.  The  girl  smiled  as  she 
glanced  at  her  grandfather's  face.  He  had  had  a  bitter 
quarrel  with  his  oldest  son  because  the  young  man  had 
insisted  on  looking  at  an  eclipse  of  the  moon  on  Sunday 
night. 

"You've  no  right  to  do  your  own  pleasure  on  my  holy 
day,"  insisted  the  old  man. 

"  If  it  is  a  sin  to  look  at  it,  why  should  it  happen  on  the 
Sabbath  ? "  asked  the  son. 

"  The  Lord's  ways  are  wonderful,  and  past  finding  out," 
was  the  reply.  "  Go  to  your  catechism.  There  you  will 
find  a  rule  of  life." 

But  the  stubborn  faith  of  early  days  had  resulted  in 
much  besides  the  keeping  of  the  letter  of  the  law.  One 
of  Samuel  Gordon's  remote  ancestors  had  been  martyred 
in  the  days  of  Claverhouse,  and  had  undergone  long  torture 
without  a  change  of  expression,  so  thoroughly  was  his  soul 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  19 

armed  against  all  that  man  could  do.  The  girl  in  the 
parlour  shivered  as  she  thought  of  the  story.  The  strength 
of  these  faces  she  admired.  Their  sternness  antagonized 
her. 

"  I  shall  never  have  the  family  expression,"  she  said  to 
herself. 

The  faith  inwrought  with  these  lives  seemed  cruel  to 
her  just  now.  Religion  like  that  was  only  another  hard 
thing  in  a  world  hard  enough  without  it,  full  as  it  was  of 
sorrow  and  misunderstanding.  She  turned  to  her  mother's 
picture,  and  a  single  glance  filled  her  eyes  with  tears.  The 
patient  sweetness  of  that  face  seemed  out  of  place  in  the 
aggressive  righteousness  of  the  Gordon  family. 

"  She  would  want  me  to  stay  and  do  it,"  said  Annice, 
with  a  little  sob,  "  but  there  are  so  many  long  years." 

Into  the  girl's  face,  full  of  its  hunger  for  life  and  love 
and  reality,  the  look  of  finished  discipline  in  the  pictured 
countenance  brought  an  expression  akin  to  itself.  Annice 
was  the  child  of  her  mother's  suffering,  and  an  inherited 
look  of  grief,  strong  sometimes,  and  sometimes  faint,  sat 
oddly  on  the  face  as  yet  unhurt  and  untried,  bespeaking 
an  experience  not  her  own.  Her  childhood  had  been 
passed  in  shadow,  close  to  her  mother's  side.  When  that 
lingering  illness  had  ended,  the  motherless  child  of  thirteen 
already  knew  the  lesson  that  years  are  sure  to  teach, 
that  the  one  great  demand  in  life  is  for  sympathy  — 
something  to  touch  the  inner  hurt  in  things. 

Standing  there,  half  in  shadow,  half  in  sunshine,  with 
the  light  falling  on  her  pale  brown  hair,  hair  soft,  yet  wilful, 
and  determined  not  to  keep  its  smooth  part,  the  girl  looked 
like  a  waif,  a  changeling.  Her  slenderness  emphasized 
the  massiveness  of  her  surroundings.  A  touch  of  quaint- 
ness,  an  old-fashioned  look,  contradicted  always  the  clothes 
they  had  made  her  wear,  and  the  setting  they  had  given  her. 

u  Mademoiselle  Annice  is  a  Puritaine,"  the  French  master 
at  Madame  Von  Hoist's  had  said.  "  I  can  see  it  in  the  way 
her  hair  is  planted  on  her  forehead." 


20  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

For  her  costly  clothes  and  her  unlimited  allowance  the 
girl  had  cared  little,  as  money  could  not  buy  her  what 
she  wished  in  life.  The  great  sacrifice,  the  great  devotion 
—  that  was  the  hope  that  had  haunted  her  dreams.  Here 
it  was  ready  for  her;  the  finding  it  brought  only  a  sense  of 
disappointment,  and  of  loss.  She  had  asked  for  something 
harder. 

She  turned  and  saw,  with  a  start,  that  her  father  was 
looking  at  her.  How  long  had  he  been  there  ?  She  col- 
oured and  was  dumb.  He  did  not  notice  the  working  of 
her  face,  for  he  was  looking  past  her  toward  the  family 
pictures. 

"There's  nothing  that  tells,"  he  observed  with  pride, 
"  like  character.  4 1  have  not  seen  the  righteous  forsaken. 

O  * 

nor  his  seed  begging  bread.'  In  this  world,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  world  to  come,  only  energy,  honesty,  industry  will 
succeed." 

There  was  a  touch  of  the  declamatory  in  his  voice.  He 
stepped  nearer  Annice,  who  looked  at  him  apprehensively. 
Now  was  the  time  to  outline  the  future  for  her. 

"  My  daughter,"  he  observed,  "  now  that  you  have 
come  home  to  stay,  1  want  to  give  you  just  a  word 
of  advice.  'Let  your  light  so  shine.'  I  want  you  to  take 
in  Winthrop  the  position  that  my  means  enable  you  to 
take.  I  should  like  to  see  you  active  both  in  club  and 
in  church  work.  Your  work  here  will  determine  largely 
your  social  status.  I  want  you  of  course  in  everything  to 
do  as  you  wish.  You  have  all  your  time,  and  perfect 
freedom." 

The  passionate  faith  of  Samuel  Gordon's  ancestors  had 
become  a  matter  of  petrified  conviction  with  him.  Curi- 
ously unreal,  unvital  was  the  belief  he  supposed  himself  to 
hold.  The  energy  of  his  life  had  gone  into  business.  For 
the  rest,  he  had  taken  his  righteousness  for  granted,  with 
perfunctory  observance  of  the  outward  rites  of  a  belief  that 
had  been,  to  his  forbears  as  live  coals  upon  the  altar. 
His  remarks  grated  on  the  girl. 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  21 

"  I  don't  think  that  it  would  be  right,"  she  said,  looking 
at  him  with  clear,  wide-opened  eyes,  "  to  undertake  church 
work  for  position.  And  I  don't  care  about  position.  I 
should  like  to  find  something  to  do  for  people  who  suffer, 
something  real  and  alive." 

Her  father's  face  darkened.  He  was  not  the  first  person 
who  had  been  startled  by  the  unexpected  honesty  and 
frankness  of  the  girl.  A  German  lady  who  had  once 
appealed  to  Annice  with,  "  Do  you  think  me  so  very  ugly 
to  look  at  ? "  had  been  staggered  by  the  girl's  plain  "  Yes." 
Mr.  Gordon  had  been  gazing  down  at  his  daughter,  think- 
ing how  docile  she  looked.  There  was  something  appeal- 
ing about  her,  that  made  every  woman  want  to  pet  her, 
every  man  want  to  take  care  of  her  and  manage  her.  Her 
remarks  now,  as  often,  had  in  them  an  electric  shock  that 
belied  the  gentle  face. 

"  Not  want  to  do  church  work  ?  "   Mr.  Gordon  repeated. 

"  No,"  said  the  girl,  resolutely.  "  You  said  that  I  was 
to  choose,  to  decide,  did  you  not  ?  " 

Life  for  Mr.  Gordon  had  been  a  long  attempt  to  com- 
bine having  his  own  way  with  the  maintaining  of  the 
traditional  family  virtue,  unselfishness.  His  own  way  he 
certainly  had  had.  The  virtue  had  appeared  chiefly  in 
admonition  to  others,  and  in  certain  complacently  remem- 
bered acts  of  spectacular  self-denial.  The  method  of 
escape  which  he  took  from  the  dilemma  was  one  he  had 
often  used,  and  his  lips  settled  into  their  usual  little  iron 
curl  of  benevolence. 

"  You  are  at  liberty  to  choose  the  right,  my  daughter," 
he  announced,  "  not  the  wrong.  Of  that  you  are  perhaps 
too  young  to  be  the  judge.  Of  course  you  will  enter  upon 
church  work.  If  you  want  to  take  up  the  poor,  nothing 
could  be  better.  I  am  visitor  in  District  A.  My  duties 
leave  me  little  time,  and  it  will  be  an  excellent  opening  for 
you.  Now  run  away  and  order  supper  early,  at  six.  I 
must  go  to  Chicago  on  the  7.15  train." 

An  hour  later,  at  supper,  sitting  behind  a  huge  silver 


22  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

teapot,  Gothic  in  structure,  Annice  talked  very  fast.  She 
was  entertaining  her  father !  She  was  making  home  happy  ! 
She  did  it  well,  with  her  eager  manner,  her  flashes  of 
silence,  her  apparent  intensity  of  interest  in  what  she  was 
saying.  She  talked  about  her  summer  at  Mount  Desert  and 
in  the  White  Mountains  with  her  aunt.  Mr.  Gordon  was 
pleased,  for  he  liked  vivacity,  and  Annice  had  never  shown  so 
little  constraint.  Once  when  his  daughter  interrupted  him, 
his  face  clouded,  and  he  made  a  suggestive  remark  about 
the  attitude  of  Youth  toward  Age.  Samuel  Gordon  was 
fond  of  abstract  names  with  capitals. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Annice,  smiling  at  him  from 
behind  the  teapot.  "  My  manners  are  bad.  They  ought 
to  have  made  me  better  ones  at  so  expensive  an  establish- 
ment, but  I  am  afraid  there  is  something  about  me  that  a  fin- 
ishing school  can't  finish.  You  see,  I'm  not  civilized.  I'm 
half  wild  yet.  I  suppose  it's  because  my  ancestry  lived  out 
of  doors  in  fields  and  woods." 

The  look  of  irritation  that  Annice  was  beginning  to  know 
settled  upon  her  father's  face. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  have  so  little  respect  for  my 
family,"  he  said  fretfully.  "  Your  ancestors  were  worthy 
people,  though  poor,"  he  added,  glancing  with  a  certain 
complacence  at  the  showy  linen  and  ostentatious  silver. 

"  Cousin  Alec  is  awfully  interesting  now,"  said  Annice, 
going  back  to  the  summer  in  haste.  "  He  goes  in  for  soci- 
ology, as  he  puts  it,  and  he's  all  waked  up,  alive.  I  used 
to  think  that  he  was  stupid.  He's  been  investigating  New 
York.  He  knows  all  about  slums  and  sweater-shops  and 
immoralities.  He's  specializing  on  shops." 

Mr.  Gordon  looked  up  for  further  information. 

"  Places  like  Horton's  there  and  Mott's  in  Chicago  and 
Smith's  here  —  " 

Her  father  winced. 

"  I  thought  you'd  find  it  interesting,"  said  the  girl,  with 
self-congratulation.  "  I  told  Cousin  Alec  he  ought  to  come 
and  talk  with  you,  because  you  know  how  things  ought  to 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  23 

be  done.  The  thing  I  mean  is  the  big,  cheap  department- 
store  where  they  advertise  great  bargains  that  aren't  there 
at  all,  and  maltreat  their  clerks,  and  underpay  their 
women  —  " 

She  beckoned  to  the  maid  to  give  her  the  newspaper  that 
her  father  had  laid  upon  the  table. 

"  Here,"  said  Annice,  reading  from  the  advertising  col- 
umns. "This  is  what  I  mean." 

"SMITH'S! 

"  CLOAKS  WORTH  $50.00  GOING  AT  $9.50. 
"  HOSE  WORTH  45^  AT  g\f. 

"  TO-DAY,  PACKAGE  OF  CANDY  GIVEN  AWAY  WITH  EACH  PURCHASE 
AMOUNTING  TO  $$.OO. 

"  OPPORTUNITY  OF  A  LIFETIME. 
"  COME  AND  SEE!  " 

"That's  the  kind  of  a  place,"  she  added,  folding  up  the 
paper,  "  where  they  give  women  two  dollars  a  week  for 
wages  and  drive  them  to  ruin  for  support.  Don't  look 
shocked.  I  don't  see  how  people  can  live  on  money  made 
by  the  blood  of  human  beings." 

"Annice!"  thundered  Mr.  Gordon.  "Not  another 
word  !  Talk  about  things  you  understand.  What  do  you 
know  about  Smith's  ?  It  is  a  perfectly  proper  place.  / 
own  that  establishment !  " 

"You,"  gasped  Annice,  turning  white  with  sheer 
surprise. 

"  7,"  said  Mr.  Gordon.  His  expression  added,  Can  it 
want  further  guarantee  ? 

All  the  sensational  facts  that  had  been  poured  into  the 
girl's  ears  during  the  summer  rushed  back  to  her :  stories 
of  starvation  in  sweater-shops,  of  the  employment  of  two- 
year  old  children  in  picking  out  bastings,  of  barefooted 
women  forced  by  biting  cold  to  wear  the  fur-lined  cloaks 


24  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

on  which  they  were  working  in  their  filthy  dens.  Quick, 
hurt  sympathy  took  possession  of  her.  For  the  moment 
her  father  seemed  responsible  for  the  sins  of  all  the  indus- 
trial world. 

"I  —  I  am  bitterly  ashamed,"  she  said.  There  was  a 
red  spot  on  each  cheek.  "  Is  the  reason  why  you  don't 
call  it  by  your  name  because  you  think  it  would  disgrace 
the  firm  of  Gordon  and  Company,  the  best  in  the  city  ? 
If  all  the  things  that  are  said  about  Smith's  are  true,"  said 
Annice,  slowly,  "I  should  rather  starve  in  the  streets  than 
use  money  earned  in  that  way." 

Mr.  Gordon  had  risen  in  wrath,  and  livid  red  spread  over 
his  face.  This  unprecedented  hurt  to  his  spiritual  dignity 
dazed  him.  He  repented  already  his  rash  confidence. 
Was  this  the  return,  he  asked,  for  twenty  years  of  careful 
training  ?  Had  his  daughter  no  proper  feeling  of  any  kind, 
no  gratitude,  no  reverence  ?  Did  she  or  did  she  not  know 
the  Fifth  Commandment  ? 

"Yes,"  said  Annice,  sadly,  looking  at  him  through  fear- 
less eyes.  "  But  there's  another  commandment  that  isn't 
in  the  catechism,  '  Thou  shalt  love  thy  neighbour  as  thy- 
self.' " 

Then  she  turned  to  the  window.  She  was  wicked.  She 
knew  it,  but  she  did  not  care.  Something  pent  up  for  years 
had  broken  out.  Her  father  gasped.  He  had  thrust  the 
responsibility  of  his  life  upon  an  outworn  creed,  and  was 
pitifully  at  sea  in  this  emergency,  with  no  abstract  rule  to 
guide  him. 

"For  a  daughter  to  show  so  unnatural  a  spirit,"  he 
stormed.  "  I  cannot  understand  it.  It  is  a  nice  leave- 
taking  before  a  long  journey  from  which  I  may  never 
return." 

"  How  long  are  you  going  to  be  gone  ?  "  asked  Annice, 
turning  suddenly  from  the  window. 

"  A  fortnight,  perhaps  more,"  said  her  father.  "  It  is  a 
pleasant  memory  of  Home  I  must  carry  with  me." 

"  Do  you  own  another  of  those  places  in   Chicago  ?  " 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  25 

asked  Annice.  The  voice  did  not  sound  like  hers.  The 
firm  outline  of  her  chin  and  the  expression  about  her 
mouth  reminded  him  of  the  way  his  mother  used  to  look 
before  she  punished  him. 

"  I  am  going  to  find  out  about  Smith's."  The  voice 
almost  frightened  him  in  its  calmness.  "  It  is  not  fair  to 
take  things  on  hearsay.  But  I  must  know.  I  have  a 
right  to  know.  In  some  way  I  shall  find  out." 

Her  conscience  smote  her,  when,  half  an  hour  later,  she 
stood  on  the  verandah  to  watch  her  father  as  he  was  driven 
down  to  catch  his  train.  He  had  said  nothing  more,  but 
had  gone  away  with  a  sense  of  hurt  that  penetrated  farther 
than  anything  else  had  done  through  the  conventionality 
of  his  fatherhood.  His  hunger  for  approval  had  met  a 
cruel  shock.  That  old,  baffled  longing  for  the  sympathy 
from  which  his  egoism  had  always  shut  him  completely 
away  was  strong  within  him.  All  this  showed  in  his  face,  and 
Annice  was  conscience- stricken.  His  hair  looked  so  gray  ! 
But  she  braced  her  sinking  indignation  with  that  longing 
to  do  general  good  which  so  often  follows  a  consciousness 
of  having  done  specific  wrong. 

"  That's  the  twelve-hundred  dollar  horse  that  John  is 
driving,"  she  said  scornfully.  "  I  presume  people  were 
starved  to  death  because  he  was  bought." 

Her  fierce  imagination  saw  rows  of  women  and  chil- 
dren, dead,  on  the  sidewalk,  her  father's  victims.  The 
great  gulf  that  separates  right  from  wrong  evidently 
yawned  between  her  and  him.  Then  a  swift  ironic  sense 
of  the  difference  between  what  she  had  meant  to  do  for 
her  father,  and  what  she  had  done,  stung  her.  Doubt  as 
to  where  right  lay  covered  her  face  like  a  cloud,  as  she 
stood,  leaning  against  a  pillar,  the  wind  playing  in  her  hair. 
She  reached  out  two  groping  hands  as  if  searching  for 
something  warm  and  responsive  to  answer  her  appeal,  and 
clasped  them  round  the  railing. 

"  Oh  dear  !  "  she  sobbed,  "  I  want  something  or  some- 
body to  believe  in." 


aifflRmmmsss^mqssfrW 


CHAPTER   III 

HE  old  city  lies  in  z  hollow  by  the  sea. 
Eastward  stretches  the  harbour,  broad 
and  blue,  protected  by  two  long  arms 
of  land.  Through  the  harbour-gate 
come  and  go  ocean  steamers,  schooners, 
fishing-smacks,  vessels  with  all  sails  set, 
vessels  with  canvas  half  furled,  and  tiny 
boats  with  two  straight  sails  moving  softly,  "  wing  and 
wing,"  as  fisher  people  say.  From  the  lighthouse  at  the 
harbour-mouth  the  whole  city  is  visible  on  the  curving 
shore,  its  smoking  factory  chimneys  and  clustered  houses 
on  the  right  of  the  river,  its  gray  church  spires  and 
spacious  lawns  on  the  left,  with  a  background  of  green 
hills  in  the  west. 

At  the  shore,  on  each  side  of  the  bay,  the  low  land  is 
broken  here  and  there  by  slight  cliffs  of  rock,  where  stunted 
cedars  and  weather-beaten  oak  trees  face  the  sea.  Between 
this  and  the  city  stretch  great  marshes,  covered  with  silky 
grass  that  is  haunted  always  by  the  sea  wind.  From  the 
first  faint  green  of  early  spring  the  colour  changes  here, 
never  twice  the  same,  running  through  its  many  green- 
nesses of  summer  to  the  brown  and  gold  of  autumn. 
White  sea-gulls  fly  over  the  marshes  from  the  sea,  crows 
pass  cawing  as  if  in  answer  to  the  cry  of  the  gulls.  Summer 

a6 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  27 

flowers  grow  at  the  edges  of  the  marsh  and  in  the  dryer 
spots,  mallows,  marsh  pinks,  cardinal  flowers,  and  red 
August  lilies;  but  all  their  glory  cannot  match  the  stern 
beauty,  in  late  autumn  and  early  winter,  of  dull  brown  stub- 
ble and  yellow  haystack  against  the  blue  of  the  water  and 
the  blue  of  the  sky. 

Winthrop  is  one  of  the  important  cities  of  the  country, 
a  great  port  of  the  middle  south,  a  shipping  centre,  known 
east  and  north  and  south  and  west.  It  is  an  indomitable 
city  which  began  its  battles  in  sixteen  hundred  and  some- 
thing and  has  fought  them  ever  since  —  Puritan,  with  a 
strain  of  Cavalier  tradition.  In  the  mingling  of  the  two, 
the  determination  of  the  former,  blending  with  a  finer  and 
more  courtly  tenacity  in  the  latter,  resulted  in  a  type  of 
character  peculiar  to  Winthrop,  stubborn,  yet  sweet. 
There  is  a  firmness  in  the  architecture  of  the  old  buildings 
which  corresponds  with  a  certain  toughness  of  fibre  in  the 
faces  of  the  early  inhabitants,  whose  portraits  look  down 
from  the  walls  of  many  houses. 

They  rest  from  their  labours  now  under  stones  that  are 
growing  green  in  the  old  cemetery  at  the  heart  of  the 
town  :  — 

"Abraham  Calvert,  a  Schooler  of  Oxford";  "Jonathan 
Winthrop,  a  Mar  chant  of  the  Towne" ;  "Guilhelimus  Smith, 
Vir  prtsclarissima  virtute  et  maximo  ingenio" 

It  is  a  versatile  city,  having  learned  in  its  infancy  to 
master  all  the  arts  of  peace  and  of  war.  The  fort  protect- 
ing the  harbour  bespeaks  old  battles.  The  smoke  of  the 
tall  chimneys  that  dominate  the  northern  end  of  the  town 
stands  for  patient  years  of  manufacture  of  cotton  and 
woollen  goods,  ploughshares,  carriages,  boots,  and  shoes. 

Yet  Winthrop's  real  fame  rests  with  her  scholars,  a  hard- 
headed,  sturdy,  masculine  race  of  scholars  who  have  carried 
the  name  and  grammars  of  the  city,  north,  even  as  far  as 
Connecticut  and  Massachusetts,  west,  even  beyond  Chi- 
cago. Wherever  they  have  gone  they  have  roused  a  love 
of  learning,  unsensational,  humble,  and  manly. 


28  HENRY    WORTHINGTON 

In  the  centre  of  the  town,  near  the  cemetery,  a  quarter 
separated  by  the  river  from  the  manufacturing  part,  stand 
grouped  the  old  university  buildings.  They  are  red  brick 
structures,  most  of  them,  little,  strong,  and  square  :  Mather 
Hall,  Quincy  Hall,  St.  Edmonds,  and  the  old  chapel,  St. 
Cuthberts.  The  chapel,  a  building  of  gray  stone,  with  a 
spire  that  suggests  Magdalen  Tower,  was  erected  by  a 
wealthy  merchant  who  loved  Oxford  unto  his  death. 

In  front  of  that  building  stretches  the  common,  a  park 
where  sometimes  labouring  men  in  brown  blouses,  drawn 
from  the  dingy  streets  of  North  Winthrop  by  the  green- 
ness here,  sit  on  the  benches  in  the  summer  twilight,  while 
young  scholars  in  cap  and  gown  stroll  past  along  the  worn 
paths.  North  Winthrop  means  tenement-houses,  small 
grocer-shops,  pawnbrokers'  establishments,  and  a  life  of 
work  at  hammer  and  anvil,  sewing-machine,  or  shuttle  and 
loom.  South  Winthrop  means  the  scholarly  calm  of  the 
Library,  the  Gothic  traceries  of  St.  Cuthberts,  the  beauty 
of  shaven  lawn  and  diamond-paned  windows.  Between 
the  two  cities  stretches  the  long  bridge  across  the  river 
where  electric  cars  go,  trailing  light. 

If  one  stays  long  enough  in  South  Winthrop,  the  spirit 
of  the  academic  town  comes  to  possess  one's  soul,  and  a 
meditative  look  of  learned  absent-mindedness  grows  in  the 
face.  The  little  university  city  has  an  atmosphere  all  its 
own.  It  is  mediaeval,  walled  in  by  ramparts  more  impene- 
trable than  stone,  self-centred,  complete,  sufficient  unto 
itself.  It  has  other  than  the  world's  standards.  The  un- 
profitable, the  abstract  is  here  the  rule  of  life,  and  its  pride  is 
a  pride  of  other-worldliness.  These  children  and  grand- 
children of  idealists  are  content  to  conquer  the  world  by 
finding  the  right  idea  of  it.  Social  position,  strangely 
enough,  is  determined  largely  by  character  and  by  brains,  for 
since  the  earliest  days  of  Winthrop's  existence,  the  "  col- 
ledge"  has  been  wrought  into  the  innermost  fibre  of  its 
being. 

Here,  meeting  a  pair  of  gray-haired  men,  and  catching  a 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  29 

scrap  of  their  conversation,  one  does  not  hear  a  comment 
on  present  prices,  or  on  recent  political  events,  but  "  Allow 
him  his  premises,"  one  will  be  saying  earnestly,  "  and  his 
conclusions  will  follow."  On  the  death  of  the  tenth  presi- 
dent of  the  university,  the  leading  newspaper  of  the  town 
considered  no  climax  better  to  give  to  his  list  of  virtues 
than  "  He  always  punctuated  with  taste."  "  Socius  Hujus 
Universitatis  "  is  the  proudest  epitaph  that  Winthrop  has 
to  bestow  upon  her  buried  sons. 

In  this  world  where  thought  is  reality  each  hoary  scholar 
—  you  will  find  nowhere  else  so  much  venerable  white 
hair — constructs  the  universe  after  the  pattern  of  his 
specialty.  The  foot  of  ground  on  which  one  stands  is  of 
necessity  the  centre  of  the  whole !  The  invariable  thesis 
of  Professor  Marston,  the  great  geographer,  is  that  charac- 
ter is  determined  by  the  lay  of  the  land  on  which  a  given 
people  happens  to  be. 

"  Look  at  the  Swiss  valleys  !  "  he  will  say,  pulling  one 
strand  of  his  long,  grizzled  beard.  "  Isolation,  in  a  place 
cut  off  by  mountains,  produces  hardiness,  independence, 
in  some  cases  produces  peculiar  vice.  It  does  one  thing 
or  the  other.  It  leads  to  strength  of  character  or  to 
degeneration.  No  half-way  measures  with  mountain 
people." 

Professor  Worthington  holds  the  opinion  that  the  only 
way  to  approach  the  study  of  life  is  through  the  micro- 
scope. To  Dr.  Bellingham,  the  chemist,  church,  state, 
faith,  heroism  are  forms  of  chemical  reaction.  And  the 
most  learned  Professor  Caldwell,  pathologist,  regards  sin  in 
all  its  aspects  as  the  result  of  microbic  action,  for  which, 
possibly,  at  some  future  date,  inoculation  may  prove  a  pre- 
ventive. 

The  intense  reality  of  the  unseen  brings  with  it  dis- 
advantages. The  air  of  Winthrop  is  often  too  heavy  with 
the  mist  of  thought.  When  its  citizens  wish  to  be  amused 
they  go  to  lectures,  but  when  they  wish  to  be  serious  they 
do  the  same.  Lecturing  to  one  another,  and  inviting 


3o  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

lecturers  from  outside,  they  often  find  themselves  lost  in  a 
maze  of  ideas,  unable  to  proceed.  The  inevitable  strife  of 
warring  words  follows.  Long,  peaceful  civil  wars  have 
marked  the  history  of  different  schools  of  thought.  Strife 
is  carried  on  with  decency,  courtesy,  and  mutual  respect. 
Department  is  divided  against  department,  sometimes  against 
itself.  Science  is  red-handed  from  many  a  fray.  In  the- 
ology many  a  battle  has  been  gained  over  many  a  wind- 
mill, and  wine-skins  innumerable  have  been  stabbed.  The 
department  of  philosophy  wears  laurels  of  a  glorious  line 
of  victories, 

"  Where  friend  and  foe  were  shadows  in  the  mist, 
And  friend  slew  friend,  not  knowing  whom  he  slew." 

Possibly,  too,  this  long  walking  in  the  quiet  ways  of 
thought  results  in  too  strong  a  sense  of  pleasure  in  separa- 
tion from  the  common  people  of  every  day.  The  scientists, 
with  their  hunger  and  thirst  for  reality,  their  yearning  for 
facts,  even  if  the  facts  must  be  invented  ;  and  the  mystics, 
philosophical  or  literary,  with  their  esoteric  knowledge,  their 
belief  in  certain  mysterious,  unlearnable,  incommunicable 
revelations  to  the  chosen  few,  are  alike  in  standing  apart 
from  humanity  at  large.  They  hold  up  an  inner  standard 
of  exclusiveness.  They  judge  men  and  are  silent.  The 
world  is  examined  and  reexamined,  and  never  knows  how 
often  it  fails  to  pass. 

Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  some  vividness  of  experience, 
the  finding  of  actual  reality  in  this  old  academic  town,  has 
quickened  the  current  of  existence  over  the  entire  land. 
The  Doric  simplicity  of  life ;  its  stern  endeavour  ;  its  im- 
patience with  easy  solutions  of  the  human  problem ;  its 
passionate  search  for  the  truth,  have  proved  a  magnet  for  the 
youth  of  the  country.  They  come  from  the  four  corners 
of  the  earth,  leaving  no  empty  nook  or  corner  in  Winthrop. 
Lqng  lines  of  them  file  up  and  down  the  stairs  of  the  uni- 
versity buildings,  and  day  and  night  the  campus  echoes  with 
the  tramp  of  many  feet.  When  the  fashion  is  a  fashion 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  31 

of  girt  loin  and  eager  muscle,  thither  young  men  will 
come. 

In  spite  of  this  mental  alertness,  one  finds  in  Winthrop 
that  curious  paradox  of  progressive  thought,  the  tendency 
to  become  fixed,  petrified.  It  harmonizes  with  the  air  of 
permanence  that  the  city  wears.  Everything  has  an  ex- 
pression of  having  come  to  stay,  and  old  buildings  are  so 
firmly  rooted  that  when  they  go  they  must  be  blown  up 
with  dynamite.  The  store-rooms  of  these  ancestral  homes 
are  filled  with  old  furniture,  old  spinning-wheels,  old  straw 
bonnets,  old  clothes  a  little  moth-eaten.  Mental  furniture 
may  accumulate  too.  If  ideas  become  somewhat  moth- 
eaten,  must  they  therefore  be  thrown  away  ? 

Here  in  the  old  city,  with  its  quiet  graveyard  and  its 
moving  river,  here,  as  elsewhere,  is  the  pathos  of  the  human 
mind  trying  to  find  an  abiding-place.  Here  is  the  old 
cruelty  of  being  forced  to  leave  the  safe  shelter  of  one's 
father's  ideas,  and  to  search  in  the  waste  for  shelter  of 
one's  own. 

If  the  door  leading  to  social  success  in  Winthrop  was 
invariably  the  university  connection,  the  surest  key  to  that 
door  was  the  smile  of  Mrs.  Appleton.  She  was  the  widow 
of  a  late  trustee.  The  blood  of  the  first  governor  of  the 
state  ran  in  her  veins,  and  her  ancestors  had  been  college 
presidents.  In  wealth  and  in  taste  Winthrop  had  not  her 
equal.  Plump,  handsome,  superbly  dressed,  she  represented 
the  serious  civilization  of  an  earlier  day,  when  women  were 
still  feminine  and  had  not  yet  learned  the  improprieties  of 
riding  bicycles  and  studying  science.  That  she  upheld  her 
ideals  with  sharpness  of  tongue  only  added  to  her  effective- 
ness, and  the  entire  corporation  of  the  university  quailed 
before  the  little  quiver  of  her  thin  nostrils  that  always  pre- 
luded a  stab.  In  the  management  of  the  charity  board 
Mrs.  Appleton's  word  was  the  last  one  spoken  always,  and 
the  only  one  that  counted.  Since  her  husband's  death  she 
had  lived  with  her  brother,  Professor  Penrose  of  the  Eng- 
lish department,  in  his  severe  but  exquisite  little  house  on 


32  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

St.  Paul  Street.  She  might  have  supported  a  much  more 
elegant  establishment  of  her  own,  but  "Virgil  needs  me," 
she  used  to  say  to  herself,  especially  after  she  had  left  him 
quivering  under  one  of  the  arrows  of  her  sarcastic  wit. 
Mrs.  Appleton  threw  her  entire  energy  into  social  life. 
She  was  giving  to-night  one  of  her  distinguished  dinners. 

Her  niece  was  with  her.  She  had  wanted  to  send  the 
girl  out  to  dinner  with  that  interesting  young  Mr.  Worth- 
ington  who  had  just  come  back  from  abroad.  But  the  girl 
committed  the  unpardonable  sin  of  being  a  minute  late,  and, 
after  entering  the  parlour,  she  stood,  terrified,  against  the 
olive  portiere,  with  her  pale  yellow  hair  shining  above  her 
pale  green  gown.  She  might  well  shrink  back  from  the 
gracious  smile  with  which  her  aunt  greeted  her.  Mrs. 
Appleton  was  even  more  impressive  than  usual.  The  dull 
red  of  her  cheeks  contrasted  with  the  white  of  her  shoulders. 
Her  wicked  eyes  twinkled  as  she  consigned  her  niece  to  the 
great  Edward  N.  Bellingham,  the  most  sublimely  learned 
man  in  the  room.  If  the  girl  had  dreamed  half  his  titles, 
she  would  have  been  even  more  terrified  than  she  actually 
was.  Mrs.  Appleton's  moment  of  triumph  was  short.  In 
hastily  rearranging  her  table  she  sent  out  the  wife  of  a 
mere  instructor  before  a  professor's  lady.  It  was  the  grav- 
est social  crime  that  Winthrop  knew. 

They  were  all  there :  Henry  and  his  father,  Professor 
Bellingham's  wife  and  daughter,  the  college  president  and 
his  wife,  and  even  Benedict  Warren.  It  was  only  Mrs. 
Appleton  who  could  prevail  upon  the  last-named  guest  to 
appear  at  a  social  function.  The  poignancy  of  her  wit 
always  tickled  his  palate.  He  liked,  too,  the  deferential 
way  in  which  Mrs.  Appleton  snubbed  the  president.  Her 
social  patronage  was  extended  to  that  dignitary  very  reluc- 
tantly. He  lacked  traditions,  she  often  said. 

Mr.  Penrose  did  the  honours  of  host  with  a  grace  that 
his  years  of  student  life  in  England,  lasting  from  his  eigh- 
teenth to  his  twenty-sixth  year,  had  deepened  but  not  orig- 
inated. His  silver-gray  hair,  and  thin,  colourless  face 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  33 

presented  a  peculiar  contrast  to  his  sister's  florid  type. 
His  English  accent  was  at  its  best.  The  soft  light  of  tall 
candles  burning  in  silver  candlesticks  filled  the  room.  The 
dining-room  chairs,  like  the  mantel,  were  of  elaborately 
carved  oak.  Beautiful  china,  Dresden,  with  a  mixture  of 
Limoges,  gleamed  among  the  wines.  The  dinner,  with  its 
slow  courses  and  its  grave  conversation,  was  an  achievement. 
It  was  a  synthesis,  where  sage  and  Epicurean  met  in  one 
man  over  terrapin.  It  was  a  march  of  triumph,  a  symbol 
of  life,  moving  on  in  ordered  and  stately  ways  to  some 
grand  finale. 

Mrs.  Appleton  saw  with  appreciation  that  her  niece  was 
not  happy.  She  had  rallied  from  her  first  confusion  and 
had  ventured  some  remarks  about  the  recent  election  in 
the  city.  But  Mr.  Bellingham  had  not  for  twenty-one 
years  been  known  to  talk  about  anything  but  his  specialty, 
and  he  gently  led  her  back  to  chemistry.  She  spoke  of 
Madame  Duse.  He  reminded  her  of  gas.  She  alluded  to 
some  facts  in  the  early  history  of  Winthrop.  He  began 
to  describe  the  new  element,  argon,  and  the  way  in  which 
it  was  discovered.  In  desperation  she  alluded  to  the  death 
of  a  young  lieutenant  in  the  Cuban  war.  This  reminded 
Mr.  Bellingham  of  the  recent  death  of  a  noted  Swedish 
chemist. 

Over  the  soup,  the  terrapin,  the  game,  and  on  to  the 
fruit  that  ended  the  lingering  dessert  they  talked  of  many 
things :  the  new  edition  of  Plautus,  in  ten  volumes,  with 
exhaustive  notes ;  the  marriage  of  the  daughter  of  the 
Greek  professor  to  a  young  merchant  from  the  West  — 
she  would  miss  Eastern  culture  !  the  gift  to  the  university 
of  the  footprints  of  an  otozoem  moodii,  hind  feet  —  an  ani- 
mal extinct  how  many  thousand  years  ago  ?  the  legacy  to 
the  library  from  the  great  German,  Gustav  Wilhelm  Ekke- 
hard  von  Holstein,  of  five  hundred  volumes  on  Platt 
Deutsch. 

Henry  was  very  grave.  The  glow  of  warmth  and  light 
and  colour  in  the  room,  which  harmonized  so  well  with 


34  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

Professor  Worthington's  genial  smile,  could  not  hide  his 
son's  slight  frown.  The  young  man,  fresh  from  his  her- 
mit life  of  hard  study  and  of  battle  with  tough  facts, 
found  a  certain  unreality  in  this  social  function,  conducted 
as  seriously  as  if  it  were  an  act  of  devotion.  Talking  with 
Miss  Bellingham,  whom  he  had  taken  out,  was  not  so  bad 
as  he  had  feared.  He  knew  very  little  of  women,  and 
preferred  them  at  a  distance.  This  young  lady,  he 
thought  with  relief,  did  not  seem  like  the  rest.  She  was 
interested  in  athletics.  She  had  travelled  in  the  East,  and 
had  ridden  horses,  camels,  donkeys.  Conversation  on 
these  points  was  to  Henry  a  welcome  relief  from  the 
troubled  social  present,  but  his  thoughts  gradually  wan- 
dered away.  The  home  with  all  its  furnishings,  the  dinner 
service,  the  painted  designs  on  the  walls,  the  carved  furni- 
ture, troubled  him.  It  was  ostentatious,  expensive,  full  of 
luxury  that  formed  a  marked  contrast  to  the  Spartan  sim- 
plicity he  had  always  known  in  Winthrop.  The  old  re- 
proach concerning  America's  greed  had  followed  him 
constantly  since  his  return,  fastening  itself  upon  him, 
octopus-wise,  until  everything  he  saw  was  grasped  by  one 
tentacle.  Faces  in  the  streets  were  full  of  the  lust  for 
money,  it  seemed  to  him.  The  interiors  of  all  the  homes 
he  saw  were  visible  proofs  of  the  justness  in  that  scathing 
criticism  he  had  denounced  as  untrue.  His  fixed  idea  had 
perhaps  destroyed  his  balance  of  vision,  and  he  saw  but  one 
of  many  expressions.  Certainly  whenever  his  eyes  wan- 
dered, the  curse  of  gold  met  him,  in  the  look  of  hunger  for 
it,  or  in  the  satisfied  content  of  display.  Henry's  father 
glanced  over  at  him  and  sighed.  There  was  certainly 
something  unsophisticated  about  the  boy,  a  lack  of  savoir 
fa'ire.  That  he  should  have  a  son  who  did  not  know  better 
than  to  think  at  a  dinner  party ! 

They  took  their  coffee  in  the  library  after  dinner.  The 
dull  colours  of  oak  panelling,  of  leather  chairs  and  choicely 
bound  books  brought  out  in  clear  relief  the  animated  faces 
and  gay  evening  gowns.  The  little  groups  of  two  or 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  35 

three  people,  chatting  together,  paused  and  turned  toward 
the  president  as  he  made  a  somewhat  loud  remark. 

"  It's  a  fine  thing  for  your  department,  Worthington," 
observed  the  president,  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire- 
place, and  slowly  sipping  his  coffee,  "  it's  a  fine  thing,  that 
gift  of  Gordon's.  It  will  bring  your  department  up. 
Strange,  money  is  usually  tied  up  so  that  it  is  of  little  use, 
but  this  is  a  case  of  the  right  thing  in  the  right  place. 
Now  you  need  —  " 

"  Mr.  President,"  interrupted  the  hostess,  with  a  rude- 
ness of  which  only  the  well-bred  dare  to  be  guilty,  "  I 
can't  allow  you  to  talk  shop  over  your  coffee."  She  en- 
gaged that  gentleman  in  conversation  for  a  minute,  then 
turned  and  found  herself  facing  Benedict  Warren.  He 
was  seated  on  a  sofa  near  the  fire,  smiling  with  pleasure 
over  the  lady's  reproof  to  her  guest. 

"You  don't  mind  discussing  forbidden  topics  yourself, 
do  you,  Mrs.  Appleton  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Warren,  rising  and 
motioning  her  to  a  seat  on  the  sofa.  "  It's  just  other 
people  you  mind,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  If  you've  got  anything  to  say  that  oughtn't  to  be  said," 
remarked  Mrs.  Appleton,  "  please  impart  it  at  once.  I 
never  see  you  on  the  street  without  wanting  to  say,  '  My 
good  Thersites,  come  in  and  rail.'  It  is  a  mystery  to  me 
how  anybody  can  know  so  many  things  that  oughtn't  to 
be  known." 

"  Do  you  happen  to  be  aware,"  he  asked,  seating  him- 
self beside  her,  "  of  how  Gordon  makes  his  money  ?  " 

"  In  the  dry-goods  establishment  of  Gordon  and  Com- 
pany, the  best  in  the  city,"  responded  Mrs.  Appleton. 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Benedict  Warren.  He 
lowered  his  voice.  Unwonted  feasting  had  made  him 
communicative.  "  That's  only  a  blind  —  respectable  house 
to  keep  up  the  family  reputation.  His  other  places  make 
the  money.  He  bought  up,  long  ago,  three  cheap  depart- 
ment shops,  one  here,  one  in  Boston,  one  in  Chicago. 
It's  Smith's  here ;  it's  Mott's  in  Chicago  —  the  bargain- 


36  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

counter  kind  where  they  advertise  fifty-dollar  cloaks  for 
nine  dollars,  on  Monday.  You  go  at  eight  o'clock  on  Mon- 
day and  find  the  cloaks  all  sold,  the  point  being  that  there 
never  were  any  such  cloaks.  Gordon's  made  more  money 
by  tricks  like  that  than,"  Warren  paused,  "all  the  men 
in  the  university  put  together  would  make  in  a  dozen  life- 
times." 

Warren  stopped.  Henry's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  with 
an  eager  look  that  he  did  not  understand.  Henry  always 
made  him  uncomfortable.  Warren  took  advantage  of  a 
movement  in  the  room  to  go  over  and  sit  down  by  his 
friend  Worthington.  In  five  minutes  they  were  quarrelling 
as  only  people  between  whom  there  is  perfect  understand- 
ing can  quarrel.  Warren,  listening  with  his  head  thrown 
back,  looked  like  a  French  duke  of  the  old  school.  The 
lean  distinction  of  his  lower  jaw  could  never  be  forgotten. 
There  was  a  grim  smile  about  his  mouth  as  Worthington 
said  hotly  :  — 

"  You  show  lack  of  the  scientific  temper,  sir.  You 
have  no  sense  of  the  real  value  of  things.  You  are  blinded 
by  appearances.  Every  grain  of  dust  in  this  world  of  ours, 
regarded  in  the  right  way,  is  worth  spending  a  man's  life 
over." 

Warren  looked  at  his  friend.  He  gloried  in  Worthing- 
ton's  reputation,  his  intellect,  his  enthusiasm,  his  childlike 
faith  that  nothing  could  kill.  These  men  had  been  friends 
from  childhood.  They  had  not  cared  for  the  same  woman, 
as  David  and  Jonathan  invariably  do  in  books.  Warren 
had  never  cared  for  any  woman.  There  was  no  room  for 
one  in  his  heart. 

"  Worthington,"  he  said,  with  his  slow,  peculiar  drawl, 
"  I  don't  see  what  this  has  got  to  do  with  the  present  of 
the  track  of  the  hind  feet  of  the  otozoem  moodii  to  your 
university." 

"You  said,"  answered  Worthington,  with  a  sudden 
smile,  "  you  said  that  the  thing  is  of  no  account." 

"  I  said,"  remarked  Warren  with  deliberation,  the  Dan- 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  37 

tesque  jaw  moving  slowly,  "  that  a  live  animal  is  better 
than  a  dead  one,  let  alone  a  dead  one's  tracks.  And  I  said 
I'd  rather  give  the  university  a  good  live  mastiff  like 
Ulysses  —  " 

"  Which  is  equivalent  to  saying,"  protested  Worthington, 
"  that  the  great  endeavour  of  science  over  infinitesimal 
things  is  worthless.  I  tell  you,  Warren,  the  least  truth 
ascertained  about  the  world  of  fact  is  worth  all  the  cheap 
generalizations  printed  or  written." 

Benedict  Warren  yawned  and  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  I'm  tired,"  he  observed.     "  I'm  going  home." 

Henry  rose,  too,  and  touched  Mr.  Warren's  arm. 

"  Are  you  sure  that  charge  you  brought  against  Mr. 
Gordon  is  true  ?  "  he  asked.  "  It's  an  ugly  bit  of  history." 

Henry's  father  sighed.  Was  it  because  the  boy  had  had 
only  masculine  training  that  this  abruptness  of  manner 
asserted  itself  even  on  social  occasions  ?  Henry  should 
have  known  better  than  to  make  a  remark  like  that.  The 
president  had  heard  it,  and  was  looking  bewildered.  Mrs. 
Bellingham,  who,  like  Henry,  had  half  overheard  Benedict 
Warren's  remark  to  Mrs.  Appleton,  was  frowning  in 
disapproval.  Everybody  was  either  puzzled  or  indignant, 
but  Henry  stood  there,  gazing  eagerly  at  Warren,  and 
oblivious  of  everybody  else.  The  chance  remarks  about 
the  dry-goods  establishment  of  Mr.  Gordon  had  been  to 
the  young  man  like  sparks  to  tinder,  firing  a  whole  train 
of  thought. 

"  Suppose  we  finish  this  up  on  the  way  home,"  said 
Benedict  Warren.  "  I'm  sleepy.  Good  night,"  and  he 
left  the  room. 

Henry  followed.  Miss  Penrose  looked  wistfully  after 
him.  Her  soft  brown  eyes,  very  like  her  Uncle  Virgil's, 
had  rested  on  him  with  much  curiosity  at  dinner.  He 
looked  interesting.  She  wished  that  he  would  come  to 
talk  with  her,  but  he  did  not  come.  Professor  Worthing- 
ton looked  after  his  son  in  hurt  surprise,  for  the  boy  had 
gone  away  without  him. 


38  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

"  I  think  it's  a  shame,"  Henry  was  saying  to  his  father's 
friend  out  on  the  sidewalk.  "  The  university  ought  not  to 
accept  the  gift  if  the  money  was  earned  that  way." 

Benedict  Warren  had  put  his  pipe  into  his  mouth. 

"  I  don't  know  to  what  better  use  he  can  put  his  money 
after  he's  got  it,"  he  observed,  "  than  make  a  decent  use 
of  some  of  it  as  he  is  doing." 

"  But  you  said  the  man  isn't  honest,"  said  Henry, 
earnestly. 

"  That  man,"  observed  Mr.  Warren,  calmly,  "  makes 
business  his  idol,  and  he  has  no  other  gods  before  it.  If 
it  would  advance  his  business  he  would  let  his  old  father 
be  sandwich  man  for  him  on  the  street  and  never  know 
why  one  should  object.  Honest  ?  He  does  as  the  rest  of 
them  do.  You  can't  expect  a  man  to  be  honest  all  alone." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,"  said  Henry,  hotly.  "  It  isn't 
right  for  us  to  take  ill-gotten  gains.  It  is  disreputable. 
We  ought  to  protest.  I'd  like  to  rise  in  my  class-room 
and  say  that  that  kind  of  thing  is  wrong." 

"Henry,"  observed  Mr.  Warren,  with  his  slowest  drawl, 
"  I'd  advise  you  to  hold  your  tongue.  I'm  afraid  you 
don't  appreciate  the  situation.  An  institution  like  this  is 
carried  on  by  the  gifts  of  wealthy  men.  It's  the  same  all 
over  the  country.  Do  you  suppose  you  can  rise  up  and 
air  your  private  convictions  with  safety  if  they  don't 
happen  to  square  with  the  opinions  of  the  patrons  and 
the  trustees  ?  Nonsense  !  There  isn't  an  educational 
institution  in  the  country  where  freedom  of  speech  is 
allowed." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Henry.  "  I  can't  believe  that 
of  Winthrop  University.  Men  like  my  father  haven't 
taught  there  all  these  years  for  nothing.  Trustees  like  —  " 

u  Like  me  ?  "  suggested  Warren. 

"  Like  you,"  assented  Henry,  with  a  laugh.  "  Trustees 
like  you  haven't  served  that  institution  so  long  to  leave  it 
in  such  a  state  of  bondage." 

"It's  true,"  insisted  Warren,  "of  the  whole  lot,  Win- 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  39 

throp  among  them.  You'll  have  to  fall  into  step  with  the 
rest." 

Henry  looked  up  at  the  stars,  then  back  to  the  thin 
figure  at  his  side.  While  heaven  was  stretched  over  his 
head,  he  said  to  himself,  clenching  his  hands,  he  would  not 
descend  to  such  standards  as  those  advocated  by  his  father's 
friend.  His  mood  of  passionate  protest  was  broken  by  a 
dry  remark  from  his  companion. 

"  We  seem  to  have  left  your  father  in  the  lurch.  Don't 
you  think  we'd  better  go  back  and  look  him  up  ?  " 

After  the  guests  had  gone,  and  the  pretty  niece  had 
retired,  Mr.  Penrose  and  his  sister  indulged  in  a  half-hour's 
sleepy  conversation  by  the  library  fire.  The  broad  chair 
in  which  the  lady  sat  became  her  regally.  A  similar  one 
emphasized  her  brother's  slenderness. 

"  I  think  that  Mr.  Worthington's  brilliant  son  must  be 
more  brilliant  at  some  times  than  at  others,"  observed  the 
lady,  with  a  yawn.  "  This  was  apparently  not  one  of  the 
times." 

She  carefully  arranged  the  laces  about  her  neck.  Her 
listener  absorbed  this  remark  with  perfect  indifference. 
When  she  launched  into  the  story,  however,  that  Mr. 
Warren  had  told  her  in  regard  to  Gordon's  business  his- 
tory, her  brother's  opaque  brown  eyes  lighted  up  with 
unwonted  interest.  She  thought  she  must  be  talking 
unusually  well. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  he  answered,  looking  meditatively 
at  the  dying  fire,  "  only  one  of  the  little  touches  of  human 
irony  that  one  meets  now  and  then.  Life  is  so  much 
more  interesting  than  books." 

Mrs.  Appleton  tapped  the  floor  with  her  heel. 

"It's  just  a  story  about  a  girl  I  meant  to  help  once.  If 
the  account  of  Gordon  is  true,  it  involves  a  curious  twist- 
ing up  of  things.  I  will  tell  you  to-morrow.  It  is  too 
late  now." 

Mrs.  Appleton  hesitated  a  minute.     Virgil's  unattached 


40  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

interest  in  the  irony  of  things  was  one  of  the  irritations  of 
her  existence. 

"  To  say  that  it  is  one  of  the  people  you  meant  to 
help  and  didn't,  Virgil,  gives  me  no  clew,"  she  observed. 
"  There  are  so  many  of  them." 

"  Good  night,  Juliette,"  said  Mr.  Penrose,  with  stately 
politeness. 


I; ;V.!&»###/^^^^  s 


CHAPTER   IV 

T  was  a  soft  gray  day,  full  of  mist  with 
the  sunshine  behind  it,  subdued,  peace- 
ful, with  a  calm  on  the  water,  and  the 
slow  wings  of  gulls  half  breaking  the 
mist,  white  against  gray.  It  was  a  day 
like  his  mood. 

Mr.  Penrose  had  dressed,  not  with 
unusual,  but  with  his  usual  care.  For  some  reason  the 
material  of  his  clothes  always  seemed  softer  and  finer  than 
that  of  other  people's  garments.  They  held  their  own  in 
an  unobtrusive,  self-respecting  way.  He  had  closed  the 
street  door  gently  but  firmly  behind  him.  He  was  going 
out  to  call  on  Annice  Gordon.  It  was  Annice  who  had 
once  said  that  she  wished  she  were  half  as  ladylike  as  Pro- 
fessor Penrose. 

His  decision  to  go  was  due  to  Mrs.  Appleton,  for  her 
parting  words  of  last  night  stung  in  his  ears.  Those 
infrequent  but  telling  suggestions  that  his  was  a  Hamlet- 
like  and  undecided  nature  always  roused  him  for  the  time 
being  into  action  of  some  kind,  never  before  into  action 
so  important  as  this.  He  had  punished  Juliette  for  her 
remark.  At  breakfast,  when  he  had  seen  that  her  eyes 
were  eager  for  the  story  denied  last  night,  he  had  held 
strictly  to  alien  topics,  talking  of  Boccaccio  and  of  the 
new  tariff  bill.  Courteous,  as  always,  he  had  managed 

4' 


42  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

to  ignore  each  hint  that  her  curiosity  threw  out.  At 
luncheon  he  had  purposely  been  late.  That  meal  over, 
he  had  retired  to  his  apartments,  spending  an  hour 
alone  with  a  great  resolve.  Now  he  was  already  far  on 
the  way  to  its  accomplishment. 

He  decided  to  walk.  It  was  only  four  miles  to  Win- 
throp  Heights  where  Annice  lived  in  the  castle  facing  the 
sea.  Mr.  Penrose  was  athletic  in  his  own  delicate  way, 
and  he  wished  to  compose  his  mind.  Something  in  the 
atmosphere  challenged  him,  roused  him.  Another  man 
might  have  found  the  calm  oppressive,  but  for  him,  as  he 
left  behind  the  city  streets  and  stepped  upon  the  driveway 
skirting  the  sea,  old  hopes  began  to  stir,  old  fancies,  long 
since  dead  or  half  asleep  and  dreaming,  came  back  to  him. 

"All  is  silver-gray, 
Placid  and  perfect," 

he  quoted  at  the  first  glimpse  of  the  sea,  and  he  stepped 
more  quickly  because  of  the  half-mystical  beauty  of  the  day. 
Then  he  sank  back  into  a  slower  step,  thinking  of  Annice. 

She  had  been  a  little  girl  when  he  had  seen  her  first,  with 
gray-brown  eyes  and  two  long  braids  of  pale  brown  hair. 
She  used  to  visit  his  sister's  daughter,  her  only  child,  dead 
now,  and  buried  in  the  old  cemetery,  "  Frances,  aged 
sixteen." 

Annice  had  been  always  so  merry,  so  mischievous,  so 
gentle,  so  impertinent,  so  dear,  with  moods  that  changed 
faster  than  the  shades  in  the  water.  Sensitive,  daring, 
spirituelle,  she  was  the  same  now  as  then.  Fashionable 
boarding-school  had  not  spoiled  her,  as  he  had  feared  it 
might.  He  had  followed  her  very  closely  since  childhood, 
corresponding  with  her  in  the  character  of  literary  adviser, 
going  now  and  then  as  if  by  accident  to  spend  part  of  the 
summer  in  the  place  whither  Annice  had  been  carried  by 
her  aunt. 

He  remembered  her  quick  and  inexplicable  changes  of 
mood.  Once,  when  the  children  had  been  playing  "  Every 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  43 

man  to  his  own  den,"  on  his  sister's  great,  shady  lawn, 
Annice  had  paused  by  her  tree  and  had  burst  into  uncon- 
trollable tears.  He  could  see  those  tear-drops  now,  tric- 
kling down  between  her  childish  fingers.  She  had  refused 
to  tell  what  the  matter  was,  and  had  gone  home,  red-eyed, 
a  quiver  on  her  lips.  Years  afterward  she  had  explained. 
It  was  a  suddenly  remembered  story  of  the  death  of  two 
kittens,  cruelly  killed  by  a  coachman  in  haste  and  in  anger. 
One  of  her  playmates  had  told  it  to  her  two  weeks  before. 
It  had  haunted  her  dreams  ever  since.  It  had  a  way  of 
intruding  itself  between  her  and  the  sunshine. 

And  once,  at  a  funeral,  the  first  she  had  ever  attended, 
she  had  burst  out  laughing  in  the  midst  of  the  discourse, 
filling  her  father's  soul  with  shame.  It  was  only  the 
picture  of  old  Professor  Hendricks,  she  confessed  afterward 
to  her  mother,  holding  his  golden  harp  in  heaven,  without 
his  pipe. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to,  I  didn't  mean  to,"  she  pleaded. 
"  I  just  saw  him  and  he  looked  so  unhappy." 

The  tenderness  of  Penrose's  mood  increased  as  he 
walked.  He  thought  of  the  child's  quick  susceptibility, 
her  eager  way  of  listening  when  one  talked.  It  was 
easy  to  sway  her  thought.  He  had  seen  her  taking  colour 
from  his  own  mental  state  when  he  had  expounded  to  the 
children  one  of  his  favourite  bits  of  literature.  There  was 
a  chameleon  quality  about  her  that  might  be  dangerous 
under  other  circumstances,  but  here  ?  A  pardonable  wave 
of  self-content  surged  over  his  soul :  Annice  and  he,  "  like 
perfect  music  set  to  noble  words." 

Professor  Penrose  strolled  on  very  slowly.  Something 
in  this  clinging  mist  softened  all  harsh  outlines,  veiled 
reality,  hushed  the  imperious  demands  of  a  brute  world. 
Marsh  and  meadow,  water,  and  strip  of  beach,  fences,  trees, 
even  the  road  at  his  feet  wore  the  aspect  of  ideal  things. 

Yes,  he  would  do  it.  Not  as  the  vulgar  love  but  in  his 
own  way  he  had  loved  that  little  girl  from  her  childhood. 
He  would  go  and  tell  her  so.  He  did  not  quicken  his 


44  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

pace,  but  walked  more  slowly,  an  unwonted  fire  burning 
in  his  wary  brown  eyes.  Annice  sympathized  with  so 
many  of  his  tastes.  That  was,  after  all,  of  chiefest  impor- 
tance to  human  beings,  taste..  Not  the  great  things  make 
up  the  subtle  affinities  that  draw  people  together,  but  the 
little,  imperceptible  likenesses  and  differences.  He  knew 
a  young  man  who  had  broken  his  engagement  because  the 
lady  of  his  choice  sent  him  Ben  Hur  for  a  birthday  gift. 

"  I  should  have  done  the  same  thing,"  he  reflected. 

But  Annice  sympathized  with  the  best  in  art  and  in 
literature  so  far  as  she  knew  it.  Did  she  not  always  agree 
with  him  ?  She  was  delicately  organized,  keen  to  perceive, 
hungry  for  the  beauty  that  had  been  shut  out  of  her  life.  Her 
father's  wealth  had  surrounded  her  with  only  vulgar  things. 
It  was  strange  that  so  finely  touched  a  nature  should  have 
its  roots  in  such  rough  soil.  To  guide  the  taste  of  this 
exquisite  creature  should  be  the  solace  of  his  remaining 
days. 

After  all,  the  flowering  of  the  old  Scotch  race  into  a 
thing  so  beautiful  was  not  strange.  The  prayers  of  all 
her  ancestors  had  shaped  that  wonderful  mouth.  Years 
of  patient  devotion  on  the  part  of  women  whose  tired 
hands  were  folded  to  rest  had  bequeathed  to  this  girl's 
face  a  look  that  made  it  unlike  all  other  girls'  faces.  It 
was  a  nature  serious  and  sweet,  for  Annice  was  serious, 
except  when  she  was  expected  to  be.  That  little  strain  of 
perversity  gave  piquancy  to  her  charm.  There  was  a  dash 
of  Ariel  in  Miranda.  To  master  this  gentle,  wilful  thing, 
with  her  quick  emotional  changes  of  extreme  joy  and 
extreme  grief ;  to  rouse  the  stored-up  passion  that  genera- 
tions of  suppressed  feeling  had  left,  was  for  him.  Maiden- 
hood had  been  asleep  for  generations  under  an  icy  Puritan 
exterior.  Siegfried-wise,  he  would  waken  her  with  a 
kiss. 

Here  his  eyes  fell  upon  a  huge  board  structure,  shaped 
like  a  comet,  and  bearing  in  great  letters  across  the  star, 
SMITH'S!  Mr.  Penrose  stopped  and  shuddered.  That 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  45 

was  Gordon,  his  mark.  The  thought  suggested  the  tale 
he  had  heard  the  night  before.  What  would  Juliette  say 
to  his  marriage  with  this  man's  daughter  ? 

"ALL  MUST  DIE,"  ran  a  legend  written  on  the  long  curv- 
ing tail  of  the  comet :  "  THE  OLD  AND  THE  YOUNG  ALIKE 

PASS  AWAY,  BUT  THE  NAME  OF  THE  MAN  WHO  SELLS  GOOD 
CLOTHING  WILL  NEVER  DIE." 

It  was  horrible.  He  went  quickly  on.  Last  night's 
criticism  of  the  owner  of  Smith's  for  concealing  his  real 
name  puzzled  Mr.  Penrose.  If  he  were  connected  with  a 
place  like  that  he  too  would  want  to  conceal  his  name ! 
He  did  not  understand.  Money  was  money,  and  most 
ways  of  getting  it  were  vulgar.  It  was  not  that :  it  was 
the  image  of  Mr.  Gordon  that  thrust  itself  between  the 
lover  and  his  dream.  He  was  socially  impossible,  with  his 
new  clothes,  his  shiny  black  hats,  and  his  air,  when  talking 
with  one,  of  being  silently  engaged  in  adding  up  columns 
of  figures  in  a  ledger.  Yes,  it  would  trouble  Juliette. 
When  her  little  daughter  had  played  with  Annice  Gordon 
the  child  had  been  too  young  to  be  a  social  problem,  but 
now  ?  If  a  malicious  suggestion  of  pleasure  in  discomfit- 
ing the  too  epigrammatic  Juliette  came  to  Mr.  Penrose, 
he  thrust  it  resolutely  away.  He  was  a  gentleman.  As 
for  the  dilemma,  it  could  not  be  helped.  His  own  horizon 
was  broader  than  Juliette's.  Looking  at  Annice  purely  in 
artistic  light,  that  little  touch  of  plainness  was  a  finishing 
charm.  It  fitted  the  old-fashioned  name,  a  name  that  was 
a  melody  to  him,  like  the  poet's 

"  Five  sweet  symphonies, 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 
Margaret  and  Rosalys." 

The  question  of  money  troubled  him  more  in  another 
aspect.  Would  Annice  miss  the  luxury  that  had  sur- 
rounded her  ?  Professorial  salaries  were  small  at  Win- 
throp.  Yet  he  owned  his  beautiful  little  house  with  its 
drooping  porch  roofs,  its  olive-green  shingled  sides,  its 


46  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

harmonies  of  brown  and  green  and  gold  inside.  A  modest 
European  trip  could  come  in  nearly  every  summer  :  Europe 
with  Annice  —  Annice  growing  every  day  more  apprecia- 
tive. Now  there  was  in  her  still  a  touch  of  the  savage. 
Those  flashes  of  intuitive  insight  into  the  beauties  and 
harmonies  of  things  did  not  preclude  lapses  into  barbarism. 
She  had  yet  to  acquire  a  trained  aesthetic  conscience. 

So  he  went  on  in  his  quest  to  win  his  lady.  Sir  Launce- 
lot  was  great  in  love  and  war ;  Sir  Galahad  in  holiness ; 
Sir  Tristram  was  both  warrior  and  sweet  musician ;  Pro- 
fessor Penrose's  strong  point  was  his  pronunciation. 

A  sudden,  grating  noise  jarred  on  his  nerves.  His 
nerves  were  sensitive,  and  he  shivered.  Then,  out  of  the 
fog,  appeared  a  blue  cart  loaded  with  marsh  grass.  A 
little  old  man  with  shaggy  hair  and  beard  and  drooping  felt 
hat  sat  on  the  hay.  He  was  so  thin  that  a  strong  wind 
might  have  blown  him  away. 

"  Tain't  very  good  fishing  weather,"  he  remarked 
politely.  Penrose  lifted  his  hat.  He  could  not  think 
quickly  enough  of  anything  to  say,  and  he  watched  the 
cart  with  a  feeling  of  regret  as  it  creaked  past.  If  he 
were  only  a  little  more  ready  !  He  was  glad  Juliette  was 
not  here.  This  growing  absent-mindedness  troubled  him 
so  much  that  he  relapsed  into  it. 

For  contemporary  life  did  not  hold  Professor  Penrose. 
Unconsciously  he  held  the  academic  tradition  that  literature 
has  been  written,  life  has  been  lived.  The  present  was  to 
him  comparatively  valueless,  full  of  vulgar  things,  of  vulgar 
people.  It  was  Benedict  Warren  who  had  once  remarked 
with  a  twinkle  that  he  wished  that,  as  Penrose  cared  so 
much  for  the  past,  he  had  lived  three  hundred  years  ago. 
When  asked  to  explain,  he  had  declined  to  do  so. 

Yet  Penrose  was  not  without  interest  in  the  world  about 
him.  Remote,  aloof,  he  regarded  it  as  an  interesting 
spectacle,  safe  enough  to  watch  from  his  vantage  ground 
of  literary  indifference.  Its  spectacles  fell  into  picturesque 
combinations.  That  cart  now,  and  that  old  man.  At  first 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  47 

it  was  only  a  picture,  and  he  hunted  about  in  his  mind  for 
an  aphorism  he  felt  lurking  there.  Penrose,  head  of  the 
subjective  school  in  English  at  Winthrop,  had  published 
once  a  little  book  of  epigrams  called  Pensees. 

"  I  presume,"  Mrs.  Appleton  had  said,  as  she  regarded 
the  title,  "that  you  used  the  French  term  because  you  con- 
sidered 4  Thoughts '  too  strong  a  word  ?  " 

The  work  he  had  done  on  this  book  had  resulted  in  a 
certain  habit  of  mind,  that  of  always  condensing  his  train 
of  thought  into  a  single  sentence. 

But  the  blue  cart  entered  farther  into  his  mind,  roused  a 
long  train  of  reminiscence.  Somewhere,  sometime,  he  had 
seen  a  picture  like  that  before  —  a  hay-field,  an  old  gray 
horse,  two  girls  tossing  hay  upon  a  little  blue  cart.  Yes, 
it  was  a  memory  of  that  summer,  ten  years  ago,  when  he, 
taking  a  solitary  horseback  trip  forty  miles  up  in  the  coun- 
try —  he  was  fond  of  solitude  —  had  wakened  one  after- 
noon to  find  himself  by  the  roadside,  with  a  terrible  pain 
in  his  leg,  his  horse  gone.  He  had  been  thinking  about 
something  and  the  horse  had  shied.  The  situation  had 
amused  Juliette  very  much  after  her  anxiety  in  regard  to 
his  health  had  been  allayed. 

A  farmer  and  his  wife  had  rescued  him,  taken  him 
home,  cared  for  him  for  six  weeks.  It  was  his  first  glimpse 
of  rustic  life.  He  had  sunned  himself  in  the  orchard  when 
he  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  crawl  out  there,  and  there 
he  had  seen  those  two  girls,  his  host's  daughters,  gathering 
hay. 

He  remembered  the  younger  more  distinctly,  little  Mary, 
Mary  Burns.  She  was  the  prettier.  She  had  been  bare- 
footed that  day  in  all  the  stubble.  Her  sunbonnet  hung 
on  her  neck.  He  had  never  seen  so  radiantly  healthy, 
happy  a  face,  with  the  chubby  cheeks,  the  bright  blue  eyes, 
the  brown  tan  on  forehead  and  chin.  She  had  told  him 
that  she  was  going  to  earn  money  enough  in  the  hay-field 
for  an  education,  and  he  had  promised  to  help  her.  It  would 
be  worth  while,  he  had  said.  That  atmosphere  of  strength 


48  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

and  health  that  radiated  from  her  was  a  rich  promise  for 
future  days. 

But  —  he  had  forgotten.  Then  the  letter  had  come, 
saying  that  the  farm  was  sold,  that  the  girls  had  gone  to 
work  in  the  city.  He  was  ashamed.  Those  people  had 
been  very  good  to  him.  He  had  listened  sympathetically 
to  Mrs.  Burns's  story  of  her  woes.  It  was  all  so  long  ago 
now  —  perhaps  they  no  longer  needed  him.  But  it  was 
strange,  it  was  ironic,  if  the  story  Warren  had  told  last 
night  was  true !  If  Gordon  was  the  unconfessed  owner 
of  Smith's,  and  if  one  of  these  girls  was  working  there, 
under  hard  conditions,  then,  unknown  to  everybody,  the 
old  injury  Gordon  had  done  the  family  was  continuing  in 
a  new  way,  for  Gordon  was  Mrs.  Burns's  own  cousin,  and 
he  had,  she  maintained,  cheated  her  of  her  inheritance. 

The  old,  kindly  intention  came  back  to  Professor  Pen- 
rose's  heart,  strengthened  by  the  mood  that  had  led  him  on 
his  present  quest.  He  would  try  yet  to  get  a  clew  to  the 
whereabouts  of  those  two  girls.  He  would  go  himself 
some  day  to  Smith's  and  inquire  for  Mary.  Then  he  went 
on  his  way  and  forgot  her  again. 

A  suspicion  as  to  his  own  state  of  mind  had  intruded 
itself  into  his  thoughts.  Was  he  feeling  all  he  should  feel 
on  such  a  quest  as  this  ?  That  literary  second-conscious- 
ness that  had  been  developing  all  his  life  robbed  him  for  a 
minute  of  his  satisfaction.  He  was  not  in  a  Romeo  mood 
surely.  Even  a  sonnet  of  Petrarch  would  make  too  heavy 
demands  upon  him  just  now.  Nor  was  he  taking  quite  the 
attitude  of  the  Vita  Nuova.  The  touch  of  melancholy 
was  screngthened  by  perceiving  that  they  were  taking  away 
some  of  his  pet  haystacks  of  brown  marsh  grass. 

He  had  reached  the  entrance  to  the  Gordon  place.  The 
lodge  was  of  gray  stone,  like  the  house  beyond.  He  turned 
into  the  pathway  that  led  along  the  gravelled  drive.  The 
house  looked  like  a  fortress,  lifting  itself  on  the  top  of  the 
ridge,  big,  ugly,  pretentious,  with  no  trees  to  soften  its 
outlines.  Gothic  tower  and  donjon  keep  had  been  robbed 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  49 

of  their  individuality  to  make  up  the  mongrel  architecture. 
Penrose  followed  the  curving  path,  mounted  the  steps  under 
the  porte-cochere,  and  rang. 

Miss  Annice  ?  the  maid  asked.  No,  she  was  not  at 
home. 

Would  she  return  soon  ? 

The  maid  did  not  know. 

"  I  can't  tell.  She  took  a  trunk  with  her,  but  she  didn't 
say.  Her  father's  in  Chicago." 

Penrose  turned  and  walked  toward  the  driveway  again. 
The  sun  was  almost  down,  and  was  breaking  the  mist. 
The  water  lay,  without  a  ripple,  opalescent,  under  a  chang- 
ing sky.  The  lover  sighed.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well.  He 
could  have  time  to  think. 


CHAPTER  V 


ATHER  and  son  led  in  Lancaster  Place 
a  life  of  quiet  scholarliness.  The  older 
man  had  outgrown  his  restlessness  of 
spirit.  The  younger  man  had  not  yet 
voiced  his.  They  had  lived  so  long  to- 
gether that  both  had  nearly  forgotten 
that  the  father's  existence  stretched  far- 
ther back  than  the  son's. 

The  home  had  belonged  to  Henry's  mother.  The  broad 
rooms,  the  high  ceilings,  the  massive  furniture  dated  from 
the  early  part  of  the  century.  Nothing  had  been  changed. 
Small  window-panes  half  shut  out  the  light.  Modern  con- 
veniences were  lacking.  A  great-grandfather's  wealth  had 
taken  concrete  shape  here  in  mahogany  sideboard  and 
dining-table,  marble  fireplaces  and  exquisite  old  engrav- 
ings. Filial  piety  had  preserved  them  all. 

The  money  had  grown  out  of  successful  manufacture  of 
carriages.  A  little  after  the  middle  of  the  century  the 
business  had  begun  to  fail,  for  a  new  firm,  with  a  patent 
tire,  had  drawn  patronage  to  the  West.  Diminishing 
returns  had  not  meant  diminishing  family  pride,  only  a 
simpler  style  of  living  behind  the  white  pillars. 

Eleanor  Worthington's  father  had  bequeathed  her  the 
house  three  years  after  her  marriage.  He  had  died  there, 
in  the  great  poster  bed  with  silk  hangings  that  stood  in  the 

5° 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  51 

spare  bedroom.  The  old  man  had  been  fond  of  his 
famous  son-in-law  who  was  making  a  name  for  himself  so 
rapidly.  He  was  fonder  still  of  his  dark-eyed  daughter, 
an  only  child. 

In  less  than  six  months  after  his  death  his  daughter  had 
followed  him.  They  lay  side  by  side  in  the  cemetery 
now.  From  Alfred  Worthington's  study-window  a  bit  of 
the  high  wall  round  their  abiding-place  was  visible.  Above 
it  white  monuments  and  dark  hemlock  trees  stood  out 
against  the  blue  sky.  Twice  each  day  for  over  twenty 
years  the  professor,  as  he  went  down  the  busy  street  by 
the  old  burying-ground,  had  lifted  his  hat  and  passed  his 
wife's  grave  with  uncovered  head. 

He  had  not  allowed  anything  about  the  house  to  be 
altered.  The  same  old  Brussels  carpets,  with  their  anti- 
quated patterns,  covered  the  floors.  The  same  haircloth 
sofa  and  chairs  disfigured  the  sitting-room.  He  kept  still 
upon  his  bureau  the  cut-glass  bottles  that  had  been  there 
the  first  year  of  his  married  life.  In  the  world  of  scholar- 
ship the  professor  was  alive  to  new  ideas.  For  the  rest 
of  life  he  liked  to  keep  things  as  they  were.  He  protested 
one  day  when  Henry,  at  fifteen,  had  insisted  on  having 
the  old  parlour  lamp  removed.  It  was  a  venerable  object 
that  had  had  an  honourable  history  for  forty  years.  Its 
glass  pendants,  used  as  prisms,  had  made  beautiful  play- 
things for  Henry  as  a  child.  One  of  them  he  had  buried, 
as  the  choicest  possible  funeral  offering,  with  a  goldfish. 

"Leave  your  grandfather's  things  as  you  found  them, 
Henry,"  his  father  had  said  gently.  "  You  won't  find 
better." 

The  lamp  came  back. 

The  boy  and  his  father  had  faced  each  other  three 
times  a  day  across  the  great  table  in  the  dining  room  ever 
since  Henry  had  been  big  enough  to  come.  The  child 
had  looked  lost,  in  those  earliest  years  of  all,  with  his 
legs  dangling  from  the  high  chair.  The  maid  who  served 
—  she  was  the  housekeeper's  daughter — had  been  very 


52  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

watchful  over  him,  and  Henry  began  to  acquire  his  father's 
table  manners  almost  as  soon  as  he  began  to  acquire 
his  abstract  views. 

They  used  always  the  old  silver,  the  old  china,  the  old 
cut  glass.  Of  the  last  there  were  only  a  few  pieces  left. 
The  little  niceties  and  formalities  of  life  were  dear  to  the 
professor's  heart.  Some  of  the  silver  had  belonged  to  the 
wife's  family,  some  to  the  Worthingtons.  The  scholar 
son-in-law  had  brought  a  moderate  amount  of  wealth  to 
stay  the  decaying  fortunes  of  the  merchant's  house,  for  the 
reward  of  good  scholarship  and  sound  theology  had  become 
visible  in  purple  and  fine  linen,  silver  and  even  gold 
appointments. 

Alfred  Worthington's  modest  salary  had  been  just  enough 
to  let  him  keep  the  old  house  without  change.  It  had  been 
untouched,  except  for  occasional  repairs  in  the  roof  and  in 
the  windows  that  Henry  had  broken.  With  grief  the 
master  of  the  house  had  consented  to  have  the  front  door 
replaced.  It  was  worn,  to  be  sure,  but  it  had  associations. 

Henry  and  his  father  had  lived  alone  most  of  the  time. 
A  maiden  sister  of  Alfred  Worthington  had  offered  to 
sacrifice  her  remaining  years  to  him  and  to  the  boy.  The 
brother  was  about  to  brace  himself  for  this  martyrdom  on 
her  part  when  an  old  lover  suddenly  came  back  from  the 
West  and  carried  her  off.  There  come  times  when  one  is 
resigned  even  to  the  will  of  God.  It  was  with  a  submission 
almost  indecent  that  the  father  tucked  his  boy  up  in  bed 
the  night  after  hearing  the  news. 

The  house  had  always  a  sense  of  quiet.  There  were 
but  two  servants.  Of  social  life  there  was  little.  Alfred 
Worthington  was  too  much  absorbed  in  his  science  and  in 
his  son  for  that.  It  was  not  until  long  after  his  wife  had 
died  that  he  would  go  out  for  dinner.  He  often  had  a 
midnight  supper  with  his  crony,  Warren.  Warren  some- 
times made  a  third  at  the  table  in  Lancaster  Place,  but 
guests  were  very  rare.  Father  and  son  both  liked  the  hush 
in  their  ears  in  those  great  rooms. 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  53 

As  for  training,  the  child  had  received  none.  The  father 
had  forgotten  that.  He  kept  the  boy  with  him  most  of 
the  time  except  during  his  laboratory  hours.  He  had  ac- 
customed himself  to  read  while  Henry  was  playing  or  talk- 
ing. So  on  winter  afternoons  and  early  evenings  they 
shared  each  other's  company  in  the  library,  where  the  rows 
of  books  upon  the  walls  were  broken  only  by  the  fireplace. 
Here  were  the  only  comfortable  chairs  in  the  house. 

It  was  because  he  was  so  busy  in  leading  his  own  blame- 
less life  that  the  professor  had  forgotten  to  bring  up  his 
son.  The  boy,  little  theology  having  been  taught  him, 
invented  a  system  of  his  own.  From  the  day  when  he 
had  informed  his  comrade,  Samuel  Bradley,  aged  four,  that 
"  Father  made  the  world,"  and  the  other  boy  had  retorted, 
"  He  didn't,  God  did,"  only  to  be  worsted  by  the  answer, 
"Then  Father  made  God,"  all  abstract  problems  of  philoso- 
phy and  of  ethics  seemed  to  be  solved  for  the  child.  The 
very  existence  of  his  father  answered  most  of  his  questions. 
He  was  a  born  hero-worshipper,  and  his  adoration  for  his 
hero  might  have  been  absurd,  if  that  gentleman  had  been 
one  whit  less  upright,  courteous,  intellectually  keen,  and 
pure-minded  than  he  was. 

The  few  admonitions  that  the  boy  had  received  were  all 
the  more  effective  for  being  infrequent. 

"  Henry,"  his  father  had  said  to  him  one  day  when  the 
child  was  seven,  "  when  a  question  is  asked  you,  give  a 
direct  answer,  if  you  answer  at  all." 

There  are  not  many  men  in  existence  who,  in  thinking 
and  in  speaking,  go  so  directly  to  the  point  as  does  Henry 
Worthington. 

One  or  two  other  pieces  of  intellectual  training  Alfred 
Worthington  had  vouchsafed  to  give  his  son. 

"  Never  seem  to  know  a  thing  when  you  don't,"  he  said. 
u  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  tell  my  son  not  to  pretend  to 
have  knowledge  that  he  hasn't,  and  I  mean,  too,  know 
when  you  don't  know  a  thing.  That  is  the  great  secret  of 
scholarship.  When  you  get  to  be  my  age,"  he  added, 


54  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

"  you  will  usually  find  that  whatever  it  is,  you  don't  know 
it." 

Once,  when  the  boy  had  been  telling  of  a  mental  victory 
achieved  over  a  high  school  comrade,  his  father  had  told 
him  that  it  was  always  better  to  conceal  superior  informa- 
tion when  there  was  any  danger  that  its  revelation  might 
make  other  people  uncomfortable. 

One  great  principle  of  ethics,  delivered  in  connection  with 
a  mild  reproof,  had  made  a  strong  impression  upon  the  child. 
He  had  asked  if  he  might  go  fishing. 

"  Decide  for  yourself,"  his  father  had  said.  "  I  want 
you  to  make  up  your  own  mind  about  things.  Only^ 
always  tell  me  what  you  decide.  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that  you  are  not  quite  ready  to  take  your  share  of 
responsibility." 

On  another  occasion,  when  Henry  had  wavered  in  re- 
gard to  doing  something  that  Samuel  Bradley  thought  was 
wrong,  his  father  had  remarked  :  — 

"Don't  live  up  to  other  peoples'  convictions,  Henry. 
Have  some  of  your  own,  or  none."  This  admonition  had 
echoed  curiously  in  Henry's  memory  through  his  years  of 
growth.  It  became  the  key-note  of  all  his  endeavour. 
Perhaps  this  advanced  training,  a  training  better  suited  to 
maturity,  some  people  said,  caused  the  deep  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility that  Henry  had  had  even  as  a  little  child.  The 
feeling  that  the  burden  of  things  must  be  borne  on  his 
shoulders  strengthened  as  the  shoulders  grew  broader, 
developing  into  a  seriousness  that  gave  a  graver  cut  to  his 
face  than  one  often  sees  in  young  men's  faces. 

Even  in  matters  religious  the  boy's  convictions  had  not 
been  dictated  to  him  by  his  father.  The  perfect  faith  that 
had  meant  in  Alfred  Worthington  unresting  struggle  toward 
perfect  action  had  stopped  short  of  words.  He  was  shy  of 
speaking  of  matters  of  belief,  and  to  him  it  seemed  that  the 
embodied  creed  was  better  than  the  spoken  one.  He  had 
come  home  one  day,  while  Henry  was  a  lad  in  college,  to 
find  his  son  stretched  out  on  the  library  floor,  his  face 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  55 

buried  in  a  smart  new  book,  The  Mythology  of  To-day. 
It  was  a  treatise,  that,  by  the  attractions  of  Old  English 
letters,  broad  margins,  and  heavy  linen  paper,  endeavoured 
to  explain  away  our  fathers'  faith.  The  professor's  heart 
had  been  wrung  with  love  and  pain  as  the  boy  rose,  the 
sunlight  falling  like  sifted  gold  through  the  closed  shutters 
on  his  flushed  cheeks  and  shining  eyes.  His  lips  were 
working. 

"  Do  you  believe  there  is  a  God  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  do,"  said  the  professor,  simply.  He  paused.  Then 
he  put  his  hand  on  the  boy's  head  and  smoothed  the  brown 
hair  as  a  mother  might  have  done. 

"  Henry,"  he  said,  "  you  have  wakened  to  the  problems 
that  nobody  can  think  out  for  you.  Go  on.  I  trust  you. 
And  remember,  whatever  your  doubts  are  about  the  great 
things,  your  duty  in  the  small  is  always  the  same.  Re- 
member your  fellow  human  beings,  and  be  good.  Whether 
or  not  there  is  God,  there  is  uprightness,  and  there  is 
courtesy." 

The  very  reticence  of  the  father  had  brought  conviction 
to  the  son.  He  had  trained  himself  to  know  the  right  by 
watching  the  expression  on  his  father's  face.  They  had 
grown  into  almost  perfect  moral  and  intellectual  sympathy. 
As  each  had  always  known  without  speaking  how  the  other 
felt,  so,  as  Henry's  mind  developed,  they  learned  to  know 
without  words  each  other's  thoughts.  The  boy  had  inher- 
ited the  scientific  temper,  the  slow  and  accurate  way  of 
judging,  the  reverence  for  fact,  that  had  made  Alfred 
Worthington  a  power  in  the  world  of  scholars.  From 
the  day  when  the  child  had  said  with  great  seriousness, 
"  Father,  when  you  die  I  shall  have  you  stuffed  and  keep 
you  in  the  corner  so  that  I  shall  know  what  to  do,"  to  the 
day  of  the  student's  return  from  Europe  with  the  conviction 
that  his  father's  advice  was  all  he  needed  as  guidance  in 
this  new  work  he  yearned  to  do,  finding  what  his  father 
thought  about  anything  had  meant  for  Henry  Worthington 
finding  the  truth. 


56  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

So  the  old  life  had  gone  on.  Now  the  new  life  had 
begun,  so  like  the  old  in  all  outward  details  that  neither 
realized  how  great  a  change  in  point  of  view  the  years 
abroad  had  meant  for  Henry.  There  was  delight  in  falling 
back  into  the  old  habits.  They  walked  together  in  the 
afternoons.  At  night,  when  Henry  started  for  bed,  his 
father,  who  had  been  glorying  all  the  evening  in  the  intense 
energy  with  which  his  son  attacked  the  piles  of  books  before 
him,  would  rise,  place  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder,  and 
—  but  it  is  nobody's  concern  how  Professor  Worthington 
said  good  night  to  his  son.  Evening  after  evening  the 
older  man  would  gaze  at  the  younger  with  radiant  eyes, 
trying  to  think  himself  back  to  the  days  of  his  loneliness. 
But  of  that  painful  interval  when  he  had  sat  by  himself  at 
table,  facing  his  ancestral  spoons  alone,  the  less  said  the 
better.  The  professor  never  said  anything  about  it  himself. 

The  night  after  Mrs.  Appleton's  dinner  they  sat  together 
in  the  library.  Work  was  over.  With  heads  leaned  back 
and  feet  stretched  out  comfortably  toward  the  fire  on  the 
hearth,  they  half  dozed,  side  by  side.  The  leaping  flames 
and  the  two  green-shaded  student  lamps  lighted  the  room, 
with  its  sombre  books,  its  old  gilt  picture-frames,  its  table 
in  the  centre,  and,  in  the  corner,  Eleanor  Worthington's 
writing-desk,  where  the  last  letter  she  had  tried  to  write 
lay  unfinished.  To  her  husband  it  always  seemed  as  if 
she  might  at  any  minute  come  and  touch  the  pen  once 
more.  Her  face  looked  down  from  the  wall,  a  portrait 
done  by  an  artist  who  had  been  able  to  understand  the 
wistfulness  of  the  dark  eyes  and  the  unsatisfied  quiver  of 
her  under  lip.  Alfred  Worthington  was  gazing  at  it.  He 
too  understood  —  now. 

Room  had  been  made  at  one  side  of  the  library  for  a 
small  new  book-case  where  Henry's  books  stood  in  an 
impressive  row:  Zuckerkandl,  Zur  Theorie  des  Preises ; 
Cournot,  Principes  math'ematiques  des  ricbesses ;  Bohm- 
Bawerk,  Kapital  und  Kapitalzins ;  Marshall,  Principles  of 
Economics;  Pantaleoni,  Principii  di  economia  pura.  Above 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  57 

the  book-case  hung  a  beautiful  silver-mounted  oar,  relic 
of  the  days  when  Henry,  who  had  been  a  famous  athlete 
in  his  college  career,  had  helped  win  a  great  victory  in  the 
Yale-Winthrop  boat  race.  Under  it  hung  a  gold  medal, 
fruit  of  an  intercollegiate  debate  when  Henry  had  been 
champion  for  Winthrop.  The  boy  had  protested  against 
the  parading  of  these  trophies  on  the  wall. 

"  Can't  you  leave  them  there  because  I  like  to  see  them  ?  " 
his  father  had  asked.  He  was  equally  proud  of  both. 

Henry  was  lost  in  thought,  and  his  father  was  wonder- 
ing whither  the  boy's  mind  had  led  him.  The  professor 
was  slightly  hurt.  For  the  first  time  Henry  had  forgotten 
to  draw  his  father's  chair  to  the  fireplace  for  him  as  they 
abandoned  their  books  for  the  night.  The  scowl  of  ab- 
sorption on  the  young  man's  face  was  like  the  scowl  he 
had  worn  the  night  before,  and  the  older  man  was  con- 
scious of  a  twinge  of  jealousy  concerning  this  train  of 
thought  that  he  could  not  divine  and  was  not  invited  to 
share.  Suddenly  Henry  started  up  in  his  chair  and  faced 
his  father. 

"  Don't  you  think  that  that  gift  of  Gordon's  to  the 
university  is  a  disgrace  ?  I've  been  thinking  it  out  all  day. 
We  ought  to  protest  against  accepting  it." 

The  father  looked  up,  puzzled.  He  never  said  "why" 
to  Henry  except  with  his  eyebrows. 

"If  what  Warren  says  is  true,"  the  young  man  con- 
tinued, "  that  money  isn't  clean.  Winthrop  has  no  right 
to  touch  it.  It  seems  to  me  that,  in  a  young  country  like 
this,  universities  ought  to  set  certain  moral  standards  for 
people  at  large.  We  have  a  responsibility  toward  the 
public  that  perhaps  the  universities  of  the  old  world  have 
not.  In  taking  a  gift  like  this  we  condone  dishonesty,  we 
condone  oppression  of  the  weak  and  helpless.  Refusal 
would  mean  temporary  crippling,  it  would  mean  cutting 
off  resources,  but  the  gain  would  be  tenfold  greater.  It 
would  set  people  to  thinking  about  righteous  and  unright- 
eous business  transactions,  and  there  is  need  of  such 


58  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

thought  in  a  mercenary  civilization  like  our  own." 
Henry  was  quoting  the  remark  of  young  Herr  Ruprechts- 
toettner  that  had  almost  led  to  a  duel.  "  If  a  university 
is  anything,  it  is  a  place  where  the  right  should  be  taught, 
and  I  think  that  a  protest  against  this  gift  is  a  duty  we 
owe  our  alma  mater" 

It  was  not  the  firelight  alone  that  had  brought  a  glow 
into  Henry's  face.  His  father  looked  at  him  with  a  certain 
bewilderment  that  settled  into  an  expression  of  grave  dis- 
pleasure. The  phrase,  "a  mercenary  civilization  like  our 
own,"  grated  on  every  nerve  in  his  body. 

"  Our  first  duty  to  our  alma  mater,  Henry,"  he  remarked 
slowly,  "  lies  in  doing  our  own  work  well.  Our  second 
duty  lies  in  letting  alone  things  that  do  not  concern  us. 
My  task  is  with  my  microscope.  Yours  is  there."  He 
pointed  toward  Henry's  book-case. 

"  But  I  don't  want,"  said  the  boy,  eagerly,  "  to  stand  off 
from  the  practical  issues  of  life  and  take  an  ink-and-paper 
view  of  things.  I  want  something  real.  My  mind  has 
been  running  for  a  long  time  on  the  contradictions  of  our 
American  civilization.  We  pose  as  the  deliverers  of  the 
downtrodden  and  the  poor.  We  really  stand  for  a  great 
machine  where  the  strong  and  unscrupulous  can  build  up 
huge  fortunes,  and  the  weak  go  to  the  wall.  That's  the 
reason  why  I  think  every  man  in  the  country  who  has  a 
conscience  ought  to  protest  against  the  workings  of  our 
unrighteous  laws  of  trade.  I'm  tired,"  there  was  a  quiver 
in  the  young  man's  voice,  "  of  seeing  such  an  infernal 
amount  of  misery  in  the  world." 

"  Misery  ?  "  asked  Professor  Worthington  ;  "  where  ?  " 

"  Everywhere,"  said  Henry,  briefly.  "  Nine  tenths  of 
the  human  race  is  crushed  by  grinding  poverty.  Look  at 
the  New  York  slums.  It's  the  same  in  London,  in  Paris, 
in  Vienna.  I've  seen  them  all.  Go  into  Attorney 
Street  here  —  " 

"  I  never  do,"  said  his  father,  severely.  "  I  hope  you 
don't."  He  looked  at  the  boy,  dazed.  Henry  had  had  a 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  59 

sharp  awakening  to  certain  phases  of  life  unknown  to  the 
older  man. 

u  I've  been  puzzling  over  these  problems,"  said  Henry, 
"  for  three  years.  I've  investigated  all  the  organized 
charity  work  in  every  place  I've  visited.  I've  studied  up 
all  the  schemes  for  social  reconstruction.  It's  a  blank 
puzzle,  all  of  it.  None  of  the  schemes  work.  But  the 
suffering  remains,  the  daily  starving  and  dying.  I  can't 
understand  why  the  poor  are  always  underpaid  for  the 
work  they  do,  why  work  should  be  so  hard  to  find.  l  To 
him  that  hath  shall  be  given.'  That's  both  biblical  and 
unchristian.  The  only  people  who  can  make  money  are 
those  who  don't  need  it." 

"But  there  are,"  suggested  the  father,  "perfectly  organ- 
ized relief  societies." 

"  That's  just  it,"  said  the  boy,  bitterly.  "  Who  was  it 
who  said  that  we  would  do  anything  in  the  world  for  the 
poor  except  get  off  their  backs  ?  " 

"  I  doubt  if  the  poor  need  you,"  the  father  remarked. 

"  But  I  need  them,"  said  the  boy,  with  fierceness.  "  I 
tell  you,  I  am  tired  of  abstract  existence.  The  scholar — " 

u  The  scholar,"  said  the  professor,  solemnly,  "  is  the 
interpreter  between  God  and  His  world." 

"  Then  he  ought  to  study  His  world,"  said  Henry 
eagerly.  "  It  is  all  right  for  you.  You  have  your  bugs 
and  worms.  You  are  working  directly  on  the  material 
furnished  you,  while  I  —  my  raw  material  means,  I  think, 
the  poor.  There  is  maladministration  of  justice  in  this 
city.  There  is  a  corrupt  state  of  things  in  the  shops. 
There  is  no  fairness  in  the  laws  of  trade.  Gigantic  trusts 
are  every  day  swallowing  up  the  money  of  the  poor.  I 
want  to  take  my  coat  off,  sir,  and  roll  up  my  shirt-sleeves 
and  fight." 

u  Why,  Henry,"  said  the  bewildered  older  man,  "  it 
isn't  a  thing  for  a  gentleman  to  do." 

11  That  story  last  night  started  the  whole  thing  up.  I 
think  I  see  where  to  begin.  Look  at  Gordon,"  said  Henry, 


60  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

recklessly.  "  A  man  thinks  after  he  has  made  a  fortune 
by  inventing  a  patent  poison,  or  selling  whiskey,  or  gam- 
bling in  stocks,  or  running  a  dishonest  dry-goods  shop,  that 
if  he  only  endows  a  theological  seminary,  or  sends  his  money 
to  the  heathen,  he  is  doing  a  lot  of  good.  From  what 
Warren  said  last  night,  that  money  of  Gordon's  isn't  fit  to 
touch.  He  has  cheated  the  poor,  and  he's  trying  to  win 
the  respect  of  God  and  man  by  giving  his  ill-gotten  gains 
to  the  university." 

The  attack  upon  the  city  that  he  loved  was  too  much 
for  Alfred  Worthington.  His  gray  eyes  were  like  steel  as 
he  looked  at  his  son. 

"Henry,"  he  said, " Mr.  Gordon  is,  I  believe,  a  man  of 
-business  honour.  He  could  hardly  be  less,  as  a  trustee  of 
this  university  and  a  prominent  citizen  of  this  town.  If  your 
charges  were  true,  I  also  should  wish  to  protest  against  this 
gift,  all  the  more  because  it  was  made  to  my  department. 
But  you  have  no  proof  of  your  hasty  generalization.  Gen- 
tlemen do  not  say  such  things.  In  stating  your  conclusions 
without  facts  you  show  a  lack  of  the  scientific  temper." 

A  curious  little  sarcastic  smile  that  the  father  had  never 
seen  before  flashed  across  the  boy's  face.  From  the  van- 
tage-ground of  a  wider  experience  he  was  wondering  at  the 
narrowness  of  view  of  a  purely  civic  standard  whose  thesis 
apparently  was,  "  Whatever  exists  in  Winthrop  is  right." 
Then  a  great  wave  of  misgiving  swept  over  him.  His 
father  had  never  before  seemed  so  far  away,  and  that  stern 
face,  with  its  firm  outlines  of  chin  and  brow,  looked  like 
the  face  of  a  stranger.  He  had  never  once  before  seemed 
in  the  wrong. 

"  How  can  I  get  my  facts  ?  "  he  asked,  "  unless  I  carry 
out  the  line  of  practical  investigation  you  condemned  a 
minute  ago  ?  " 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other  in  the  firelight,  for 
both  had  risen.  The  father  was  angry,  but  dispassionate 
ways  of  thinking  for  years  leave  a  mental  habit. 

"  You  are  right,  Henry,"  he  said  coldly.      "  Investigate." 


sat  on  the  floor 
away,  and  had  locked 


CHAPTER  VI 

HE    day   before    Mr.    Penrose's    call   at 
Gordon    Heights,  Annice  had  had  the 
smallest  trunk  in  the  house  brought  to 
her   room.       It   was    an    old-fashioned, 
square  tin  trunk,  part  of  her  mother's 
wedding  outfit.     Some  of  her  mother's 
things  were  packed  in  it  now.     Annice 
taking  them  out.     She  had  sent  the  maid 
the  door.     There  was  an  air  of  ex- 


citement and  of  mystery  about  her  disordered  strands  of 
hair  and  about  her  burning  cheeks. 

The  room  did  not  look  as  if  it  belonged  to  her.  It  was 
too  large,  too  expensive,  too  pink.  That  was  the  colour 
of  the  carpet,  of  the  furniture  upholstered  in  brocade.  Bu- 
reau cover  and  table-scarf  were  worked  with  the  same  shade. 
The  high  walls  were  bare,  except  for  a  few  cheap  pictures  : 
little  Samuel  praying,  in  his  night-dress ;  the  little  girl  in 
blue,  asleep,  with  daisies  in  her  hands ;  the  same  little  girl 
awake.  In  the  small  book-case  were  blue  and  red  and 
green  editions  of  Scott's  poems,  Moore's,  Jean  Ingelow's, 
all  apparently  unused.  The  apartment  had  been  furnished 
as  a  surprise  for  Annice  on  her  fourteenth  birthday,  and  every- 
thing in  it  except  the  pictures  had  been  new  then.  Annice 
clung  to  these.  Her  mother  had  given  them  to  her  when 

61 


62  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

she  was  a  little  girl,  and  the  sight  of  them  always  brought 
back  the  old  days. 

Those  old  days  !  They  had  lived  in  a  tiny  frame  house 
in  the  suburbs  of  a  small,  up-country  town.  Mr.  Gordon 
had  always  been  away  all  day  long  attending  to  business. 
There  had  been  no  servant,  and  Mrs.  Gordon  had  trained 
her  little  daughter  to  help  her  in  the  housekeeping.  Annice 
took  from  the  trunk  a  long  white  apron  that  her  mother 
had  worn  then  in  the  afternoons,  and  hid  her  face  in  it. 
She  saw  her  mother  in  the  Boston  rocker,  one  foot  on  the 
hearth  of  the  small  wood  stove.  She  was  darning  stock- 
ings, and  Annice,  the  little  girl  Annice,  on  a  stool  near  by, 
the  gray  kitten  curled  up  in  her  lap,  was  darning  stockings 
too.  Those  autumn  afternoons,  when,  by  reaching  out 
one  hand  she  could  touch  her  mother's  gown,  had  stayed  in 
her  mind  always  as  an  image  of  warmth  and  comfort  and 
home.  There  had  been  a  hush  when  her  father  came 
home,  sometimes  silent  and  worried,  sometimes  beaming 
over  a  present  he  had  brought  for  his  wife.  The  kitten 
had  to  be  put  out,  for  Mr.  Gordon  did  not  like  cats.  An- 
nice could  see  it  now,  shivering  on  the  window-sill,  touch- 
ing the  pane  with  its  little  paws  and  mewing  piteously 
toward  the  warmth  within.  She  dried  her  eyes  on  the  soft 
white  apron  and  smiled.  Someway,  she  felt  like  that  kitten 
herself  now. 

But  this  was  not  getting  ready  !  Annice  roused  herself, 
folded  all  the  worn  garments  in  the  little  trunk,  and  put 
them  reverently  away  in  a  box.  Then  she  examined  her 
wardrobe,  to  see  if  anything  in  it  could  serve  her  in  this 
crisis.  Last  spring's  green  covert  cloth  was  too  conspicu- 
ous, and  the  pale  brown  tailor  suit  had  too  much  of  an  air. 
Over  each  garment  that  she  examined  she  bit  her  lips  with 
vexation.  Her  clothes  all  had  distinction,  the  girls  in 
boarding-school  had  said.  She  wished  she  had  a  gingham 
dress  !  Suddenly  the  right  thought  struck  her.  She  took 
from  the  farthest  corner  of  the  closet  a  soft  black  gown. 
Her  eyes  grew  dim  as  she  looked  at  it.  It  was  part  of  the 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  63 

mourning  she  had  worn  for  her  mother.  Old-fashioned 
and  not  quite  long  enough,  it  was  so  much  the  better  for 
her  purpose. 

"  It  will  make  me  feel  safe,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  It 
belongs  to  her." 

Guiltily,  as  if  she  were  robbing  the  house,  she  stole  her 
clothing  from  the  bureau  and  packed  it  away  in  the  trunk. 
Then  she  brushed  her  hair  straight  back  from  her  face, 
doing  away  with  the  gracious  part  that  softened  the  stern- 
ness of  her  forehead.  She  put  on  the  black  gown,  pausing 
over  the  forgotten  hooks  and  eyes,  and  smiling  in  the  glass 
at  the  reflection  of  old-fashioned  sleeves  and  skirt.  A  bat- 
tered felt  walking  hat  that  she  had  worn  at  the  shore,  and 
an  ulster  that  she  had  rescued  the  night  before  from  the 
charity  box  downstairs,  completed  her  costume.  Would 
the  servants  think  it  queer  ?  she  wondered,  as  she  rang  the 
bell  and  gave  orders  to  have  the  trunk  taken  down  to 
the  carriage.  It  was  such  a  little  one,  she  explained  to  the 
coachman  as  he  came  up  for  it.  It  could  go  with  her  just 
as  well  as  not.  John  gave  it  one  long  critical  look  and 
shouldered  it.  Its  battered  cover  looked  apologetic  as  it 
came  into  contact  with  his  smart  livery. 

Annice  stopped  to  say  good-bye  to  a  picture  of  her  mother 
that  stood  on  her  bureau  in  a  plain  gold  frame. 

"  She  wouldn't  want  me  to  do  it,  not  just  this,"  said  the 
girl,  sadly.  "  But  there's  no  other  way  to  find  out,  and  I 
think  that  it's  right.  I'm  not  coming  back  until  I  know  all 
about  it,  until  I'm  sure." 

It  was  a  dull,  gray,  leaden  day.  A  blight  seemed  to  rest 
on  the  marshes.  Over  all  the  world  something  was  set- 
tling down  like  an  extinguisher,  shutting  out  air  and  light. 
The  autumn  leaves  looked  stained  and  draggled.  Annice 
nestled  down  in  the  carriage  cushions,  looking  in  her  sombre 
garb  like  a  newly  made  nun.  She  drove  away  from  home 
with  a  mingled  sense  of  pain  and  fear  and  mischief.  As 
she  looked  back  toward  the  gray  house  on  the  hill  a  spirit 
of  adventure  possessed  her,  and  she  experienced  a  flash  of 


64  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

keen  enjoyment  in  her  escape  from  the  shadow  of  those 
walls.  But  when  the  great  towers  faded  from  her  sight,  a 
sudden  fear  paralyzed  her.  She  felt  herself  very  small  and 
thin  and  inadequate.  After  all,  she  was  but  a  waif,  a  stray, 
and  she  had  no  place  to  lay  her  head.  Her  hands  were 
clasped  very  tightly  together,  and  her  scarlet  lips  were  set 
in  stern  lines.  Would  her  father  come  home  and  find  out 
about  it  ?  Would  he  care,  she  wondered  ? 

"  He  doesn't  really  love  me,"  she  said,  two  tears  running 
down  over  her  pale  cheeks.  She  had  tried  hard  to  think  of 
something  to  account  for  her  crying.  "  He  just  thinks  he 
ought  to  because  the  Bible  says  so.  He's  —  acting  !  " 

She  was  ashamed  to  dry  her  eyes.  What  was  the  matter 
with  her  ?  That  was  the  second  time  to-day,  and  she 
despised  tears.  Why  was  she  so  unstrung  ?  She  leaned 
her  cheek  against  the  cushion  at  her  back.  Yes,  she  was 
wretched.  She  wanted  to  be  loved  really,  not  biblically. 
She  was  hungry,  and  thirsty,  and  homesick,  and,  yes,  she 
confessed  it,  she  was  frightened  at  what  she  was  doing. 
To  reassure  herself  of  her  safety  she  drew  a  slip  of  paper 
from  her  pocket  and  read  the  address:  "The  Merton  Home 
for  Working  Girls,  19  Den  man  Street,  North  Winthrop." 
Annice  nodded  with  satisfaction,  and  a  little  gleam  of  amuse- 
ment flickered  in  her  face.  It  was  perfectly  respectable. 
Her  father  had  told  her  so.  It  was  one  of  his  Charity 
Organization  addresses,  and  he  had  advised  her  to  recom- 
mend it  to  the  girls  she  would  inevitably  meet  in  her 
church  charity  work.  She  scowled  a  little,  tried  to  look 
stern,  but  failed.  It  was  hard  to  keep  at  tragic  height  all 
the  time  that  righteous  wrath  against  her  father's  wrong- 
doing. 

Her  meditation  was  broken  by  the  coachman's  voice. 

"  Station,  miss  !  " 

Would  John  see  that  her  nose  was  red  ?  She  struggled 
to  regain  her  self-possession.  But  John  did  not  see.  He 
was  so  busy  wondering  where  Miss  Annice  was  going  with 
that  forsaken  little  trunk  that  he  half  dropped  it  in  getting 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  65 

it  out,  and  scratched  the  carriage.  He  looked  apprehen- 
sively at  his  handiwork. 

"  He'll  be  angry,"  said  John.     "  Where  to  ?  " 

This  was  an  emergency  for  which  Annice  was  not  pre- 
pared. 

"  Check  it  to  New  York,"  she  said  quickly,  handing 
him  her  mileage  book.  She  flushed  as  she  did  so,  for  dis- 
simulation was  new  to  her.  Her  head  swam  a  little  as  she 
stood  in  the  station,  with  people  crowding  past  her,  elbow- 
ing her,  stepping  on  her  feet.  But  she  looked  tall  and 
calm  and  self-possessed  as  John  came  back  with  the  check. 
She  handed  him  a  bill. 

41  See  if  you  can  have  the  carriage  fixed  before  —  I  mean 
right  away,"  she  said.  "  And  don't  wait.  Go  home.  " 

John  reluctantly  obeyed.  Then  Annice  went  to  the 
baggage-room  and  asked  to  have  the  check  taken  off  her 
trunk.  Her  heart  was  beating  so  that  she  wondered  if 
those  men  could  hear  it,  but  nobody  seemed  surprised,  and 
the  girl's  courage  rose. 

"  Keep  it  until  it  is  sent  for,"  she  directed.  Then  she 
walked  out  of  the  station  and  took  a  car  for  North 
Winthrop. 

The  city  across  the  river  was  to  her  practically  un- 
known. As  the  girl  looked  down  the  long  squalid  streets 
where  factories  stood,  belching  smoke,  and  where  men 
with  blackened  faces  sat  on  curbstones,  eating  bread  and 
butter  for  their  noonday  meal,  the  shock  of  her  first  glimpse 
of  dirt  and  misery  stunned  her.  Pictures  from  her  memory 
flashed  between  her  and  the  sights  before  her  :  the  drawing- 
room  at  Madame  Von  Hoist's  with  its  white  marbles 
and  its  silken  curtains  •,  gay  scenes  on  the  long,  curving 
beaches  of  the  northern  seacoast  where  her  summers  had 
been  spent ;  and  the  soft  green  grass,  pleasant  to  little  bare 
feet,  around  the  home  where  she  had  spent  her  early  child- 
hood. All  these  things  were  confused  with  the  images 
before  her  of  ragged  children  playing  house  with  bits  of 
barrel  hoops  and  fragments  of  china  ;  of  dishevelled  women 


66  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

scolding  their  children  or  one  another;  of  withered  and 
piteous  old  faces  drifting  up  and  down  the  streets  in  the 
surging  crowd,  like  dead  leaves  flying  before  the  wind. 

The  car  jolted,  turned,  and  went  rumbling  down  Dow- 
den  Avenue,  the  Bowery  of  North  Winthrop.  The  black 
and  red  vistas  of  the  factory  quarter  gave  way  to  the  glare 
of  long  lines  of  little  shops,  with  windows  full  of  gaudy 
clothing,  house-furnishings,  pictures.  All  at  once  Annice's 
heart  stopped  beating.  A  huge  building  on  a  corner,  domi- 
nating the  whole  quarter,  bore,  printed  high  in  electric  burners 
that  at  night  advertised  it  in  a  blaze  of  glittering  points, 
the  name  "  SMITH'S  !  "  Annice  motioned  to  the  conductor 
to  stop.  She  joined  the  crowd  of  women  who  were  elbow- 
ing one  another  at  the  entrance.  The  sight  of  the  dirty 
floor,  of  the  girls  with  dark-ringed  eyes  who  served  as 
clerks,  and  the  nauseating  odour  of  bad  air  made  Annice 
faint  as  she  entered  for  the  first  time  her  father's  place  of 
business.  She  could  not  think.  She  could  not  see.  She 
knew  only  that  she  was  hot  and  ashamed.  From  this  place 
emanated  those  temporal  blessings  for  which  her  father 
daily  thanked  God  at  family  prayers.  This  was  the  means 
through  which  the  Giver  of  all  good  bestowed  His  bounty. 

Smith's  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  slum  district,  catching, 
by  its  cheap  abominations,  the  hard-earned  money  of  the 
poor.  Its  windows  displayed  plush  albums,  with  shining 
metal  corners,  huge  chromos  in  rococo  gilt  frames,  plated 
jewelry,  set  with  glass  stones,  wreaths  of  artificial  flowers 
for  home-decoration,  purple,  red,  and  villainous  green, 
brilliant  calico  wrappers,  and  paper-soled  shoes.  A  great 
deal  of  advertising,  a  great  deal  of  cheating,  the  worst  pos- 
sible conditions  for  the  employees,  a  few  articles  marked 
below  cost  that  the  many  might  be  marked  far  above  — 
this  was  Smith's.  It  brought  a  rich  return  for  the  money 
invested  in  it,  twenty-five,  forty,  sometimes  sixty  per  cent. 

The  proprietor's  daughter  walked  past  the  counter  where 
shoes  were  displayed  at  sixty-nine  cents,  gaiters  at  four- 
teen ;  and  past  the  patent  medicine  department  where 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  67 

Hood's  Sarsaparilla,  Salvacea,  Paine's  Celery  Compound, 
and  the  like  were  advertised  as  "going  below  cost."  She 
worked  her  way  slowly  toward  the  corner  where  ready- 
made  clothing  was  displayed.  Here  were  piles  of  soiled 
and  shop-worn  undergarments,  trimmed  with  coarse  machine 
embroidery ;  waists  of  shiny  silk,  elaborately  tucked ;  half- 
sewed,  untidy  calico  wrappers.  Annice  purchased  an 
indigo  blue  calico  waist  for  twenty-nine  cents.  Her  lip 
curled  at  the  corner  as  she  took  up  her  parcel. 

"  I  shall  wear  that  as  a  badge,"  she  said  to  herself,  turn- 
ing away. 

The  shrill  remark  of  one  of  the  shop-girls  arrested  her 
as  she  was  working  her  way  out.  The  speaker  was  giving 
directions  to  some  one  who  had  just  entered. 

"  Applyin'  for  a  place  ?  Go  to  the  boss.  There  he  is. 
Mr.  Smith.  He  owns  the  whole  concern." 

Annice  watched  the  applicant  as  she  approached  the  sup- 
posed proprietor.  He  gave  one  glance  at  the  girl's  tawdry 
finery,  smiled  a  quiet,  insinuating  half-smile,  and  shook 
his  head.  He  was  a  smooth,  sleek,  gentlemanly  man, 
with  a  pointed  beard.  His  face  wore  the  complacent  look 
that  goes  with  successful  dry-goods  dealing.  Annice 
turned  away  with  a  shiver.  She  was  a  person  of  swift, 
intuitive  judgments  that  were  usually  right.  A  heading 
that  she  had  seen  in  a  scientific  journal  flashed  into  her 
mind  :  "Lizards  that  walk  erect  —  ".  Perhaps  her  excited 
state  of  mind  made  her  unjust  to  the  manager  of  her 
father's  establishment. 

Outside  the  shop  she  asked  a  policeman  the  way  to 
Denman  Street.  People,  houses,  passing  horses  swam 
before  her  eyes  like  things  in  a  dream.  The  walk  quieted 
her,  and  she  began  to  feel  in  these  faces  an  interest  that  was 
not  curiosity.  They  were  full  of  traces  of  feeling,  of  pas- 
sion, and  the  girl  thrilled  with  a  sense  that  she  understood. 
Something  very  far  back  in  her  consciousness  felt  at  home 
here.  There  was  no  joy,  no  beauty  to  make  her  afraid. 
A  few  people  looked  back  at  the  stately  young  lady  in  the 


68  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

short  black  gown.  One  dirty-faced,  flaxen-headed  baby 
rushed  out  and  clasped  her  skirt  in  two  fat  hands. 

"  Teacher,  tell  me  a  story,"  she  said.  Annice  bent  and 
patted  the  tangled  hair. 

Number  19  Denman  Street  was  reached  at  last.  High 
over  the  dingy  door  was  printed :  "  The  Merton  Home 
for  Working  Girls."  On  the  ground  floor  was  a  restau- 
rant in  whose  window  sat  a  girl  baking  griddle-cakes  over 
a  gas  stove.  The  entrance  to  the  Home  was  a  narrow 
passageway  on  the  right.  Annice  held  her  breath  that  the 
odours  might  not  reach  her,  and  bravely  rang  the  bell. 
An  untidy  maid  came  to  the  door.  Annice  followed  her, 
with  sinking  courage,  up  the  dark  stairway  and  into  a 
room  whose  furnishings  consisted  of  a  desk  and  three 
wooden  chairs.  A  gray-haired  woman  sat  at  the  desk. 
Annice  quailed  before  the  glance  of  her  shrewd  blue 
eyes. 

"  You  wish  a  bed  ?  "  she  asked  quietly.  The  fine  prac- 
ticality of  that  plain  face  made  the  girl  ashamed  of  the 
quixotic  part  she  was  playing. 

"  A  room,  please,"  said  Annice. 

"We  have  no  single  rooms,"  said  the  woman.  "There 
are  six  beds  in  each.  Sit  down,"  she  added  kindly, 
touched  by  the  dismay  in  the  girl's  face. 

Annice  forgot  her  part.  She  was  about  to  say  that  such 
an  arrangement  was  infamous,  then  she  remembered,  and 
the  flush  that  came  to  her  face  was  an  added  disguise. 

"  A  bed,  then,"  she  said  firmly.  She  tried  to  sit  awk- 
wardly on  the  edge  of  her  chair,  but  nature  had  not  made 
her  for  awkwardness.  As  she  had  climbed  the  stairs  she 
had  taken  the  precaution  to  roll  up  the  wrists  of  her  gloves, 
thus  making  a  gap  between  glove  and  sleeve.  Would 
they  think  that  she  was  an  Irish  girl,  she  wondered,  with 
mischief  in  her  eyes.  To  herself  she  looked  uncouth 
enough  to  succeed. 

"  It  is  a  dollar  a  week,"  said  the  matron,  "  in  advance. 
Have  you  any  references  ? " 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  69 

The  young  impostor  was  not  prepared  for  this,  but  she 
had  a  ready  wit. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  but  I  can  give  you  names :  Mr. 
Gordon,  of  Winthrop  Heights ;  Mrs.  Appleton,  75  St. 
Paul  Street." 

The  girl  congratulated  herself  in  secret.  Her  father 
would  not  be  home  for  two  weeks,  and  Mrs.  Appleton  was 
going  South  for  two  months  at  least. 

11  What  is  your  name  ? "  asked  the  woman.  "  And 
your  age  ? " 

She  was  making  entries  in  a  long  book. 

"  Annice  Whitney,  "  said  the  girl,  stopping  with  her 
middle  name.  u  I  am  twenty-two,"  she  added. 

"  Are  you  a  working  girl  ?  Have  you  supported  your- 
self before  ?  Have  you  done  any  factory  or  shop  work  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Annice,  "  but  I  have  done  housework." 

She  thought  of  the  linen  dish  towels  in  that  little  house 
in  the  suburbs,  and  of  the  days  when  she  had  dried  the 
dishes  for  her  mother.  They  had  been  so  clean  and 
shining  as  she  took  them  from  the  hot  water. 

"  Large  family  or  small  ?  "  the  woman  was  asking. 

u  Very  small,"  and  the  girl's  voice  choked.  The  matron 
looked  at  her  with  suspicion,  but  the  innocent  face  re- 
assured her.  There  was  something  appealing  in  youth 
and  inexperience  like  this. 

"  You  may  stay,"  she  said.  "  You  should  have  brought 
letters,  but  you  did  not  know.  Do  you  want  a  meal 
ticket  ? " 

"  A  meal  ticket  ?  "  gasped  Annice. 

"  You  get  your  meals  in  the  restaurant  downstairs.  We 
have  them  at  a  reduction,  three  and  a  half  dollars'  worth 
for  a  dollar  seventy-five.  Two  seventy-five  with  the 
room." 

Annice  took  out  her  purse,  then  tried  to  cover  it  with 
her  hand,  afraid  that  the  monogram  on  the  clasp  would 
betray  her.  The  action  roused  the  matron's  curiosity. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  self-supporting  ?  "  she  asked. 


7o  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

"  I'm  just  beginning,"  answered  the  girl,  with  a  bitter- 
ness in  her  tone  that  made  her  companion  think  she 
understood.  It  was  another  case  of  sudden  loss  of  money. 
Poor  child  !  The  matron's  eyes  were  full  of  pity,  and  she 
touched  her  young  charge  caressingly  as  she  rose  to  con- 
duct her  to  her  room. 

Annice  was  taken  through  a  sitting-room  whose  floor 
was  covered  with  brown  ingrain  carpet  and  whose  walls 
were  decorated  with  pictures  of  the  presidents  of  the 
United  States,  into  a  long  apartment  where  six  little  iron 
beds  stood  in  a  row.  There  were  two  iron  wash-stands, 
with  galvanized  iron  pitchers  and  wash-bowls.  Diminu- 
tive towels  hung  at  the  side ;  ivory  soap  lay  in  queer  little 
soap  dishes  on  a  rafter  near  by. 

"  Each  girl,"  the  matron  was  saying  comfortingly,  "  has 
two  nails  for  her  clothes.  You  have  a  trunk,  you  say,  at 
the  station  ?  I  will  send  for  it.  It  can  go  under  your 
bed." 

Annice  flinched,  but  she  said  over  and  over  to  herself 
the  dying  words  of  that  martyred  Covenanter  ancestor :  — 

"  Ye  can  hurt  my  body,  but  ye  canna  get  at  my 
soul." 

The  matron  went  away,  advising  the  new  girl  not  to  go 
out  to  look  for  work  that  afternoon.  Morning  was  a  bet- 
ter time.  Annice,  left  alone,  took  off  her  hat  and  sat  down 
on  the  edge  of  her  bed.  Two  skirts,  ragged  at  the  bottom, 
decorated  the  wall  opposite.  A  soiled  velvet  waist  hung 
over  her  head.  An  agony  of  physical  repulsion  took  away 
from  her  all  deeper  thoughts  and  all  sense  of  her  reason  for 
being  there.  She  watched  it  all  by  the  dull  light  that  came 
in  through  a  single  window,  opening  on  an  inner  court. 
She,  too,  was  turning,  she  felt,  gray  and  dirt-coloured  and 
miserable  and  sordid.  Had  she  lived  here  all  her  life  ? 
She  could  not  remember  anything  before  this.  She  could 
not  go  to  bed  here  !  She  could  not  use  a  "  meal  ticket "  ! 
Then  she  drew  that  object  slowly  from  her  pocket,  looked 
at  it  and  laughed  a  little  hysterical  laugh.  It  was  horrible, 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON 


but  it  was  funny.     She  examined   the  ascending  scale  of 
figures  round  the  edge. 


in 
tn 

01 

01 
01 

01 
01 

en 

err 

01 

10   10  10   10  10  10  10  10  10  10  10 

LO 

in 

LO 
LO 
LO 
LO 

QUICK   LUNCH, 

19   Denman  St. 
$3.50. 

20  20  20  20  20  20  20  20  20  20  20 

"  I'll  eat  the  five  cent  side  first,"  said  Annice  Gordon, 
gravely. 

The  long  afternoon  wore  on,  and  at  six  o'clock  the 
"  girls  "  came  home.  Two  were  waitresses  in  a  restaurant. 
They  were  let  off  in  the  evenings,  while  another  set  went 
on  duty.  They  called  each  other  "  Seven,"  and  "  Fifteen," 
their  restaurant  numbers.  One  was  a  type-writer,  one  a 
dry-goods  clerk.  The  last  was  a  woman  of  forty-five, 
clerk  in  a  jeweller's  shop.  She  wore  a  shiny  cashmere  dress, 
and  a  pair  of  diamond  ear-rings  that  had  been  thoughtfully 
presented  by  her  employers  in  token  of  their  appreciation 
of  her  fifteen  years  of  faithful  service. 

They  were  kind  to  Annice. 

"  She  looks  like  a  real  nice  girl,"  said  Number  Seven  to 
Number  Fifteen,  and  Annice  was  grateful.  Never  before 
had  she  had  this  overwhelming  sense  of  being  stripped 
of  all  that  wealth  and  education  had  given  her,  and 
sent  out  into  the  world,  a  naked  soul,  to  stand  or  fall 
by  her  own  merits.  She  was  glad  if  she  was  "  nice."  She 
had  not  hoped  for  so  much  as  that.  The  dignified  young 
woman  whose  opinion  had  been  law  for  her  schoolfellows 
at  Madame  Von  Hoist's,  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  her 
hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  looking  beseechingly  toward  this 
group  of  shop-girls  as  if  pleading  for  approval. 

It  was  the  jeweller's  clerk  who  invited  Annice  to  go  to 
supper  with  her.  They  left  the  other  girls  curling  their 


72  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

hair.  Putting  on  their  hats  they  groped  their  way  down 
the  dark  staircase  into  the  brilliantly  lighted  restaurant. 
The  tables  were  crowded  with  men  who  kept  their  hats  on 
while  eating ;  with  working  girls  dressed,  with  elaborate 
care,  in  black  gowns  trimmed  with  jet,  silk  waists  corded 
in  the  latest  style,  or  shabby  dresses  surmounted  by  wide- 
brimmed,  multi-coloured  hats.  They  all  stared  as  the 
newcomers  entered,  and  Annice  flushed  to  the  roots  of  her 
hair.  A  red-faced,  white-aproned  waiter  dashed  up  to  them 
as  they  took  their  seats. 

"Set-ups  for  two?"  he  demanded.  "What's  your 
order  ? " 

The  jeweller's  clerk  waited  for  Annice. 

"  Toast,  please,"  said  the  girl,  speaking  feebly. 

"  Now,  my  dear,"  remonstrated  the  older  woman,  "  you 
just  mustn't  do  that.  Don't  starve  yourself.  Use  your- 
self well.  It  costs  more  now,  but  it  will  pay  in  the  end. 
Have  a  good  meat  supper,  dear.  There,  do.  Try  stew. 
It's  real  nourishin'." 

The  clatter  of  heavy  knives  and  forks  was  hard  to  bear. 
The  rude  gaze  of  these  men  was  unendurable.  Annice 
wanted  to  scream,  but  she  listened  quietly  to  the  cheerful 
conversation  of  her  neighbour.  A  little  old  woman  slipped 
in  and  sat  down  beside  them. 

"  I  want  somethin'  light,"  she  said  apologetically  to  the 
waiter.  "  I've  been  to  dinner." 

Abashed  by  his  impatience,  she  hurriedly  ordered  tea  and 
fried  potatoes..  Annice  forgot  her  miseries  in  stealing 
glances  at  the  woman's  wrinkled  face.  She  actually 
looked  hungry.  Her  calico  gown  was  old  and  her  shawl 
frayed.  Meanwhile  the  waiter  had  come  back.  He  de- 
posited before  Annice,  with  a  thud,  a  portion  of  gray  stew 
with  bits  of  carrot  in  it,  on  a  pewter  platter.  Annice  tried  ; 
she  could  not  eat  it.  She  wondered  if  this  hungry  neigh- 
bour who  was  eating  fried  potatoes  with  economical  slowness 
would  like  it.  To  offer  it  would  be  an  act  too  suggestive 
of  a  Sunday-school  book.  Annice  rose  and  followed  her 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  73 

guide  from  the  table.  Looking  back,  she  saw  that  her 
late  neighbour  had  laid  a  detaining  finger  on  the  pewter 
platter. 

"  I'll  just  finish  this,"  she  explained  to  the  waiter,  "  if 
you'll  leave  it.  Thankee." 

"You'll  get  your  appetite  back  in  a  day  or  two,"  said 
the  jeweller's  clerk,  as  they  groped  their  way  up  the  dark 
stairway.  "  What  did  you  say  your  name  was  ?  That's  a 
queer  name,  I'll  call  you  Annie." 

In  her  little  iron  bed  that  night  Annice  grasped  with 
rigid  arms  the  rod  at  her  head,  stretched  out  her  feet  until 
they  touched  the  cold  iron  at  the  other  end,  and  tried  to 
think.  It  was  terrible,  infamous.  She  had  not  dreamed 
that  anything  could  be  so  bad.  Were  girls  compelled  to 
live  like  this,  six  in  a  room,  with  no  bath-tubs,  no  privacy  ? 
She  was  smothering  in  this  bad  air.  Then  through  her 
keen  sense  of  hurt  came  a  thrill  of  satisfaction.  If  these 
things  were  so,  she  was  glad  that  she  knew.  At  last  she 
had  touched  something  tangible,  real.  The  old,  vague, 
wistful  sympathy  exulted  in  the  thought  of  possible  outlet. 
She  could  help  some  day. 

As  she  went  to  sleep,  a  dim  consciousness  came  to  her 
that  the  misery  in  the  world  is  complex,  woven  of  many 
strands.  Her  father  could  not  be  wholly  responsible  for 
the  pewter  platters,  the  unventilated  rooms,  the  desolate 
iron  beds.  Her  resentment  against  him  softened.  Her 
hair  got  into  her  eyes,  was  drenched,  and  dried  on  her 
cheeks.  She  dreamed  of  swarming  streets  and  rotting 
houses,  the  nightmare  broken  by  hints  of  remembered 
beauty  from  wood  and  field.  The  love  of  visible  beauty 
which  she  fought  back  in  her  waking  hours  often  conquered 
in  sleep,  and  the  colour  and  outline  of  fair  things  in  nature 
haunted  her  dreams.  At  four-o'clock  the  rattling  of  dishes 
in  the  restaurant  below  wakened  her,  and  a  sickening  odour 
of  griddle-cakes  floated  up  on  the  warm  air.  At  six,  a 
shriek  from  a  speaking-tube  roused  the  girls  in  the  room, 
and  they  rose,  dressed,  and  breakfasted,  What  a  placard 


74  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

called  "  A  I  coffee  "  was  served  Ln  heavy  cups  with  pewter 
spoons. 

Annice  started  out  at  half-past  seven. 

"  Good  success,  my  child,"  said  the  matron,  placing  her 
hand  on  the  girl's  shoulder.  Annice  looked  very  meek  and 
pale. 

"  I've  written  out  a  little  recommendation  for  you," 
said  the  matron  ;  "you  can  get  those  people  you  referred  to 
to  sign  it  when  you  have  time.  Read  it,"  and  she  unfolded 
the  paper. 

"  I  hereby  certify  that  this  young  woman,  Annie  Whit- 
ney, is  a  sober,  honest,  worthy  young  woman.  She  has 
not  lived  in  places,  but  she  is  obliging  and  would  be  faith- 
ful to  any  party  employing  her. 

MARY  F.  DREW, 
Matron  of  the  Merton  Home  for  Working  Girls" 

Annice  took  the  papers  and  thanked  her  benefactor, 
whose  eyes  looked  somewhat  guilty  because  of  this  prema- 
ture recommendation.  But  she  did  not  look  at  the  list  of 
agencies  that  accompanied  the  note,  for  her  plans  were 
already  made.  When  she  reached  the  street  she  drew  a 
newspaper  cutting  from  her  pocket  and  looked  at  it  in 
triumph.  It  was  an  advertisement. 

"  SALESLADIES  WANTED.     SMITH'S." 


M^^gj^^ 


^K^^^^^^fJg^JfJfJfJfflffJfJffJf^Jflf^Jg 


CHAPTER  VII 

T  was  bargain  day  at  Smith's.  In  the 
windows  coarse  embroidered  handker- 
chiefs were  advertised  at  ten  cents, 
"  Novelties  in  Nectwear "  at  twenty- 
nine,  "  Smoking-jackets,  to-day  on/y,"  at 
ninety-eight.  At  the  book  counter, 
The  Bonnie  Briar  Bush  sold  for  five 
cents,  The  Reveries  of  a  Bachelor  for  twelve.  A  volume  of 
selections  from  Byron,  through  a  mistake  of  the  buyer  in 
this  department,  was  conspicuously  displayed  as  Don  "Juan's 
Works,  at  nineteen  cents.  Downstairs  in  the  housekeeping 
department  pie-tins  went  for  a  penny,  rolling-pins  for  the 
same,  iron  spoons,  two  for  five  cents. 

All  day  crowds  of  women  poured  in  at  each  door,  fought 
for  precedence  at  counters  where  a  half-hour's  hard  elbow- 
ing resulted  in  saving  two  cents  on  a  purchase,  and  tried 
to  force  a  way  out  through  the  same  entrances  where  the 
incoming  throng  surged  and  beat.  Bonnets  were  twisted, 
facings  torn  from  skirts.  A  woman  who  had  bought  a 
plaster  cupid  in  the  Art  Department  dropped  it  on  the 
floor,  and  angrily  listened  as  the  heels  of  her  fellow- 
customers  crushed  it  to  atoms.  Only  one  plump  arm 
remained  after  that  crowd  had  passed.  The  owner  picked 
it  up,  carried  it  home,  and  afterward  displayed  it,  glued  to 
a  bit  of  blue  plush. 

75 


76  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

"  It  cost  only  seventy-nine  cents,"  she  always  remarked 
with  pride.  "  The  usual  price  is  one-forty-nine." 

Upstairs  the  untidy  restaurant  was  filled  to  overflowing. 
Chops  were  served  at  half-price  to-day ;  charlotte-russe 
and  peach-shortcake  at  three  cents  each.  At  half-past 
nine  in  the  morning  women  began  to  take  their  luncheon, 
eager  to  forestall  their  rivals.  They  bustled  back,  with 
crumbs  about  their  mouths  and  an  anxious  pucker  in  the 
forehead,  to  hunt  a  bargain  at  some  new  counter.  Chil- 
dren were  dragged  with  them  under  the  feet  of  the  crowd. 
At  noon  a  tragedy  occurred.  Mothers,  anxious  to  make 
good  purchases,  left  their  babies  in  carriages  on  the  side- 
walk, close  under  the  windows  of  the  shop.  A  runaway 
horse,  dashing  across  the  street,  upset  one  of  the  carriages, 
and  plunged  on,  more  frightened  than  ever.  The  child 
stopped  crying,  and  was  lifted,  warm  and  dead,  by  a  police- 
man. He  held  it  until  the  mother  came,  listened  to  her 
angry  reproaches  regarding  his  neglect  of  duty,  then 
wheeled  the  carriage,  where  the  child  lay,  surrounded  by 
the  bundles  that  represented  the  morning's  bargains,  over 
the  crowded  crossing  at  the  foot  of  the  street. 

The  shop-girls  toiled,  patient,  bewildered,  their  nerves 
strung  to  the  point  of  highest  tension,  their  feet  weary 
with  standing  in  pointed-toed  shoes.  Down  the  slides  to 
the  shipping  department  went  a  steady  avalanche  of  hetero- 
geneous articles,  hair-brushes,  tooth-powder,  undergar- 
ments, hymn-books.  Articles  were  recorded  in  the  books, 
wrapped  up  with  lightning  dexterity,  and  hurled  by  red- 
faced  clerks  to  the  delivery-wagons  that  rattled  in  swift 
succession  up  to  the  door.  The  tired  horses  moved  away 
with  an  expression  that  belied  their  red  cockades  and  their 
strings  of  bells.  Inside  the  shop,  the  little  cash-girls  dodged 
among  the  crowd,  ran  under  people's  arms,  turned  deaf  ears 
to  needless  inquiries,  and  kept  eyes  and  mind  fixed  upon  the 
one  task  in  hand  with  a  concentration  that  ought  to  have 
been  a  lesson  in  business  methods  to  the  aimless  crowd  of 
customers.  The  floor-walker,  his  dignity  somewhat  upset 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  77 

by  the  attacking  army,  invaded,  retreated,  led  charge  after 
charge,  with  a  generalship  worthy  of  a  better  cause. 

At  the  ready-made  clothing  counter  stood  a  girl,  curly- 
haired,  red-cheeked,  with  a  look,  in  the  gleam  of  the  hair 
and  the  cutting  of  the  short  upper  lip,  bespeaking  Scotch 
descent.  She  seemed  to  be  the  centre  of  attraction  for  all 
the  employees  within  reach.  Business  was  despatched  with 
a  rapidity  that  put  her  fellow-clerks  to  shame.  She  tried 
forty-nine-cent  calico  wrappers,  with  attenuated  girdles 
and  half-hemmed  ruffles,  on  customer  after  customer,  and 
in  each  case  effected  a  sale  after  trying  the  garment  on 
herself.  The  glow  of  life  and  strength  about  her,  the 
curving  outlines  of  her  plump  figure,  lent  beauty  to  the 
limp  folds.  She  laughed,  made  jokes,  ordered  her  fellows 
about.  If  customers  grew  angry  because  of  delay  she  sent 
them  to  the  refreshment  counter  opposite  where  tea  and 
coca-cola  and  nervine  were  served  gratis,  then  waited  on 
them  while  they  were  still  good-humoured  from  the  use  of 
the  stimulant.  Neighbouring  clerks  appealed  to  her  con- 
stantly for  advice.  She  settled  disputed  questions  quickly, 
decisively,  finally.  Whether  the  decisions  were  right  or 
wrong  was  not  of  so  much  consequence.  They  were 
immediate  and  final. 

A  pause  came  in  her  work.  The  woman  who  was 
looking  at  twenty-one-cent  underwaists  stopped,  uncertain 
whether  to  take  one  or  two.  Mary  Burns's  eyes  wandered 
to  the  new  girl  at  the  toy-counter.  They  had  wandered 
that  way  very  often  all  the  morning  with  a  protective 
look.  There  was  something  appealing  in  the  new  girl's 
slenderness  and  air  of  inexperience.  She  was  not  smartly 
dressed,  like  the  others,  in  frayed  silk  waist,  with  a 
mascot  tie,  carrying  its  imitation  jewel.  Her  calico  waist 
and  her  white  collar  and  cuffs  made  her  attire  conspicuous 
for  its  plainness. 

"  She  looks  old-fashioned,"  said  Mary  Burns  to  herself. 
"I  bet  she's  from  the  country,  too,"  and  her  heart 
warmed. 


78  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

There  was  trouble  at  the  toy-counter.  The  new  girl, 
hurrying  to  deliver  change,  and  confused  in  regard  to  dif- 
ference in  prices,  made  a  mistake.  To  the  woman  who 
had  bought  a  jointed  doll  for  a  quarter  she  gave  a  parcel 
containing  a  pasteboard  donkey,  and  ten  cents  instead  of 
seventy-five.  The  rectification  of  the  mistake  failed  to 
diminish  the  woman's  wrath.  She  was  giving  a  harangue 
on  cheating  when  she  felt  her  arm  grasped  firmly,  and 
turning,  she  confronted  the  determined  face  of  Mary  Burns. 

"You've  got  your  doll,  ain't  you,"  demanded  Mary, 
"  and  you've  got  your  change  ?  Then  kindly  move  on  and 
make  room  for  the  next  customer." 

The  woman  yielded  to  the  potent  courtesy  of  this  dis- 
missal. The  new  girl  looked  up  in  gratitude. 

"  You're  tired,"  said  Mary  Burns.  "  What's  your 
name  ?  " 

"  Annice  Whitney,"  answered  the  new  girl.  Her  smile, 
and  a  certain  dainty  graciousness  of  manner,  riveted  the 
other  girl  to  the  spot.  "  I  am  very  grateful  to  you," 
she  added. 

"  Stand  right  up  to  them,"  said  Mary  Burns.  "  Don't 
let  them  bully  you." 

The  look  of  wistfulness  that  was  struggling  with  an 
expression  of  amusement  in  the  face  before  her  struck 
home  to  the  heart  of  Mary  Burns.  Her  blue  eyes  beamed 
with  sympathy. 

"You  just  come  to  me  every  time,"  she  said  stoutly, 
starting  back  to  her  own  counter.  The  woman  took  two 
waists.  Another  woman  came,  another,  another.  The 
day  wore  on.  At  noon  Mary  went  up  to  the  restaurant, 
and,  after  long  waiting,  got  a  sandwich,  then  came  back 
to  her  post.  Her  feet  ached,  her  head  ached,  her  back 
ached.  All  day  she  had  not  been  able  to  sit  down.  The 
look  of  apparent  good  health  that  struck  one  at  first,  be- 
cause of  the  sturdy  frame  and  rather  broad  cheeks,  proved, 
at  second  glance,  to  be  deceptive.  There  were  dark  rings 
under  her  eyes,  hollows  in  her  temples,  and  an  air  of 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  79 

nervous  exhaustion  about  her  whole  face,  yet,  as  she  had 
often  said,  she  was  the  strongest  girl  in  the  shop. 

She  could  not  keep  her  eyes  away  from  Annice  Whit- 
ney. The  girl  looked  utterly  exhausted,  and  all  the  deli- 
cate colour  had  faded  from  her  face.  When  she  was  not 
besieged  by  customers  she  stood,  remote,  gazing  into  space, 
with  trouble  in  her  eyes,  grief  lurking  in  the  corners  of 
her  mouth.  Once  the  gray  look  faded.  Light  flashed 
back  into  the  girl's  face,  mischief  into  the  dimples  of  her 
cheeks  and  the  curves  of  her  lips. 

"  If  you  ain't  onto  your  job  better,"  a  woman  said, 
11  you'll  lose  your  place.  I  don't  know  but  I'll  tell  the 
boss  that  you've  got  something  besides  sawdust  dolls  to 
think  about  now." 

An  expression  of  gravity  drove  away  the  girl's  smile. 

"  The  eight-cent  size,  or  the  twelve-cent  size  ?  "  she 
asked  demurely,  holding  up  two  dolls  with  china  heads 
and  legs.  She  fumbled  awkwardly  with  the  wrapping- 
paper  when  the  woman  had  made  her  choice.  Goods  at 
the  toy-counter  were  wrapped  up  on  the  spot. 

"  Seems  to  me  your  fingers  are  all  thumbs,"  said  the 
owner  of  the  twelve-cent  doll,  but  the  girl's  smile  subdued 
her. 

14  Would  you  mind  wrapping  it  up  yourself?"  asked 
Annice,  with  appealing  sweetness.  The  purchaser's  anger 
melted. 

"You  don't  look  fit  to  be  standin'  here  all  day.  Can't 
you  set  down  ?  " 

Annice  shook  her  head.  There  was  a  new  sternness  in 
the  lines  of  her  mouth  when  she  did  not  smile. 

The  piles  of  clothing  at  Mary  Burns's  counter  were  nearly 
exhausted.  The  cheap  undergarments  with  their  coarse 
embroidery  sold  at  prices  that  exceeded  only  by  a  few  cents 
the  cost  of  the  material  alone.  Yet  Smith's  did  not  run 
without  profit  to  the  owner,  and  the  middlemen  who  secured 
goods  for  the  establishment  did  not  work  without  pay. 
Here,  as  is  usual,  those  farthest  down  in  the  scale  suffered 


8o  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

most,  and  the  low  prices  of  the  ready-made  underclothing 
meant  starvation  wages  for  the  sewers.  They  represented, 
Heaven  only  knows  what  hours  of  hopeless,  driving  toil  on 
the  part  of  women  driven  by  hunger  to  make  shirts  for 
thirty  cents  a  dozen,  night-dresses  at  a  dollar  a  dozen,  buy- 
ing the  thread  themselves.  These  bargains  were  eagerly 
snatched  up  by  wives  of  mechanics,  comfortable  on  an 
income  of  twenty  dollars  a  week ;  type-writers  and  stenog- 
raphers, well-fed  and  well-paid  ;  and  ladies  in  South  Win- 
throp  who  did  not  know  what  the  word  hunger  means. 

None  of  these  considerations  troubled  Mary  Burns,  for 
she  knew  nothing  of  prices  paid  for  clothing,  and  would 
have  found  it  hard  to  sympathize  with  suffering  that  was 
not  directly  under  her  eyes.  Her  thoughts  were  divided 
between  her  sister  at  home  and  the  new  girl  at  the 
toy-counter.  Jennie  had  looked  more  fagged  than  ever 
of  late,  and  her  work  was  harder  for  her  every  day. 
And  here  this  Whitney  girl  was  standing,  white  about 
the  mouth,  looking  ready  to  faint  at  any  minute.  Mary 
Burns's  forehead  was  wrinkled  with  wondering  what  to 
do.  A  life  of  hard  toil  had  made  her  unconscious  of 
any  kind  of  pity  save  the  compassion  of  muscle,  and  the 
call  of  need  meant  in  her  a  practical  desire  to  perform  some 
service  immediately  with  her  hands.  Gradually  Annice 
faded  from  her  mind,  and  old  anxiety  about  her  sister 
absorbed  her,  reinforced  by  a  physical  weariness  that  made 
her  the  helpless  prey  of  her  own  thoughts.  She  went  about 
her  work  in  a  mechanical  fashion.  Annice  missed  the 
sympathetic  response  of  the  blue  Scotch  eyes. 

At  five  minutes  to  six,  preparations  for  closing  began. 
Cloths  were  spread  over  the  piles  of  goods  on  the  various 
counters.  The  clerks  worked  with  nervous  haste,  eager 
for  the  fresh  air  outside,  for  supper.  The  shop-girls  filed 
out,  chattering,  their  sailor  hats  tilted  to  one  side.  Mary 
was  putting  her  hat  on  when  a  voice  startled  her. 

"  Well,  how  did  it  go  ?  " 

She  turned,  flushing  a  little  with  vexation.     A  man  con- 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  81 

fronted  her,  brown-whiskered,  quiet,  with  a  subdued,  gen- 
tlemanly air  that  would  have  seemed  to  any  other  girl 
respectful. 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Smith,"  she  said.  "  Everything 
is  gone,  except  two  or  three  wrappers.  They  made  a 
dead  set  for  my  counter."  She  waited  for  him  to  go,  but 
he  did  not  move.  Some  of  her  fellow-clerks  looked  at 
her  and  envied  this  freedom  of  conversation  with  the  pro- 
prietor, for  the  manager  of  Mr.  Gordon's  great  concern 
was  supposed  on  all  hands  to  be  the  owner  of  it. 

"Are  you  going  home?  "  he  asked.  "I  am  going  that 
way  and  will  walk  along  with  you,  if  you  don't  object." 

Colour  leaped  to  the  girl's  face  and  neck.  She  was 
pretty  in  her  white  sailor  hat  and  plain  black  gown,  with 
the  red  creeping  over  her  very  ears. 

"  I  do  object,"  she  said  abruptly.  "  I've  told  you  that 
before." 

She  turned,  rudely,  and  began  arranging  garments  on  the 
shelves  behind  her.  The  man  gave  her  one  long,  non- 
committal look,  then  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  away. 
He  spoke  a  few  words  to  the  girl  at  the  refreshment-counter. 
She  appreciated  the  honour,  and  showed  that  she  did.  Mary 
Burns  went  out  of  the  shop  alone. 

She  walked  rapidly  through  the  crowded  street,  slipping 
between  knots  of  slow  pedestrians,  hurrying  over  crossings 
in  defiance  of  policemen,  in  the  face  of  prancing  horses 
and  electric  cars.  Walking  down  the  thoroughfare  of  the 
poorer  part  of  the  city  she  was  accosted  more  than  once  by 
the  loafers  who  have  learned  the  hour  when  the  working 
girls  go  home. 

u  Hurry,  he's  waitin' !  "  called  one,  derisively,  as  the 
girl's  swift  steps  bore  her  past  him.  An  evil-looking  man 
ran  into  her,  lifted  his  hat,  apologized,  and  looked  expect- 
antly at  her.  The  scorn  in  her  eyes  showed  him  his 
blunder.  The  clean,  girlish  face  was  full  of  dislike  at 
being  stared  at  —  by  the  wrong  people.  It  was  full  of  a 
shrewdness  that  meant  knowledge  of  the  world  and  inno- 


82  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

cence  together.  Just  now  she  was  thinking,  in  irritated 
scorn,  of  Mr.  Smith.  She  could  never  convince  herself  of 
the  reality  of  those  dry-goods  clerks  at  Smith's.  To  her  a 
man  was  something  who  pitched  hay  and  ploughed  and 
made  stone-walls.  These  men  were  like  bits  of  mecha- 
nism, made  of  papier-mache,  and  moved  by  strings.  All 
she  asked  of  them,  she  was  saying  to  herself,  was  to  be  let 
alone.  Why  couldn't  they  let  her  alone  ? 

A  bare-headed  woman  sat  on  a  door-step,  holding  a  cry- 
ing child  on  her  knee.  At  a  window  near,  a  wrinkled  face 
was  bent  over  a  dish-pan,  and  two  old,  knotted  hands  were 
wielding  a  dish-cloth.  The  sight  of  work  with  the  hands 
always  brought  a  guilty  feeling  to  Mary  Burns.  Why 
was  she  not  doing  things  like  that  ?  Why  did  she  stay 
dressed  up,  behind  a  counter  ?  She  was  half-conscious 
now  that  that  sense  of  unreality  she  had  in  looking  at  dry- 
goods  clerks  extended  to  everything  that  was  not  connected 
with  the  touch  of  the  soil,  with  the  manual  labour  spring- 
ing from  it.  That  old  smell  of  earth,  of  growing  grass 
and  mouldering  leaves,  that  meant  a  world  of  live  people, 
actually  doing  real  things.  This  was  only  playing,  and  it 
was  hard  play,  too.  Meanwhile  her  feet  carried  her  swiftly 
toward  the  only  real  thing  in  her  life,  her  sister  Jennie. 

At  Salutation  Street  Mary  turned,  and  entered  the  door 
of  a  tenement-house.  She  climbed  four  flights  of  stairs  in 
pitchy  darkness.  One  thought  and  one  only  urged  her  on : 
to  get  home  first  and  have  the  work  done  when  her  sister 
appeared.  On  the  top  floor  she  stopped  and  opened  the 
door  with  a  key  which  she  had  taken  from  her  pocket. 
Without  even  removing  her  hat,  she  lighted  the  kerosene 
stove,  put  over  it  a  tiny  tin  tea-kettle,  then  grasped  a  worn 
broom  and  proceeded  to  sweep.  She  was  taking  up  the 
dirt  on  a  bit  of  pasteboard  that  answered  for  a  dust-pan, 
when  her  sister  entered. 

"  That  you  ?  "  said  Mary.     "  You're  early." 

She  had  hoped  to  have  the  potatoes  boiling  by  the  time 
her  sister  came. 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  83 

Jennie  sank  down  on  a  chair,  panting  for  breath.  The 
stairs  were  growing  harder  and  harder.  She  had  stopped 
to  rest  on  the  third  flight,  leaning  her  forehead  against  the 
damp  railing  with  a  little  sob  of  sheer  exhaustion.  She 
was  a  tiny  woman,  faded  and  pale,  with  an  apologetic  air 
of  self-effacement.  Dress,  eyes,  hair,  were  all  of  one  neu- 
tral tint.  By  the  side  of  Mary's  warmth  of  colour,  she 
seemed  lifeless  and  old.  The  nose  was  pinched  and  col- 
ourless, and  the  thin  lips  were  withered  into  fine  wrinkles, 
but  Mary  saw  none  of  these  things.  Her  older  sister  was  to 
her  still  the  figure  that  had  represented  to  the  eyes  of  a  six- 
year-old  girl  the  glory  of  young  womanhood,  a  figure  clad, 
in  the  afternoons,  in  a  clean  cambric  gown  —  attractive 
enough  to  lure  to  the  porch  of  the  old  yellow  house  in  the 
country  the  awkward  young  owner  of  the  next  farm. 

"Just  you  lie  down,"  said  Mary,  "and  keep  out  of  my 
way  while  I  get  supper." 

She  pushed  her  sister  toward  the  bed  in  the  corner.  It 
was  covered  with  a  patchwork  quilt.  The  coarse  white 
pillow-cases  were  trimmed  with  rick-rack  edging.  Jennie 
yielded.  She  let  her  sister  take  off  her  hat  and  tuck  up  her 
feet,  and  a  thrill  of  pleasure  ran  through  her  thin  little  frame 
in  the  delicious  rest  of  lying  down. 

"  I'm  awful  lazy,"  she  said,  conscious  of  yielding  to  the 
sin  of  luxury. 

"  You  come  by  it  honestly,"  said  Mary,  gayly.  The  girl 
was  anxiously  watching  the  transparent  blue  shadows  under 
her  sister's  eyes.  "You  get  it  of  your  father.  His  was 
the  same  kind.  He  was  lazy  at  hard  work  from  sunrise  to 
sundown,  just  as  you  are." 

Supper  was  ready  at  last.  Mary  had  made  tea  in  the 
old  blue  china  teapot  that  had  belonged  to  her  mother  and 
her  grandmother.  The  cups  matched  the  teapot,  both 
decorated  with  a  picture  of  two  lovers  escaping  over  a  blue 
bridge  by  a  willow  tree,  from  angry  parents  following  in 
vain  pursuit.  Mary  looked  at  her  sister,  then  dragged  the 
rickety  table  over  to  the  bed. 


84  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

"Just  stay  where  you  are  and  eat  your  supper  like  a  lady. 
Here,  have  the  other  pillow.  Now  are  you  comfort- 
able ? " 

The  girl  had  uttered  no  word  of  compassion.  It  was 
the  old,  unspoken  sympathy  of  willing  hands  and  feet. 
The  older  sister's  eyes  opened.  They  looked  at  the  girl 
with  the  expression  that  Filippino  Lippi's  madonnas  have 
in  gazing  at  the  Christ-child.  They  were  beautiful  eyes, 
in  spite  of  the  faded  gray  of  the  iris,  in  spite  of  the  encir- 
cling wrinkles.  There  was  in  them  no  desire.  Mouth 
and  eyes  alike  bore  the  look  of  one  who  for  herself  asked 
nothing,  who,  so  far  as  this  world  is  concerned,  had  let 
go.  She  touched  shyly  the  curly  yellow  hair  above  her 
face. 

"  Your  part  was  crooked,"  she  said  by  way  of  apology. 
The  half  caress  had  in  it  all  the  tenderness  of  motherhood 
with  none  of  its  passion.  Mary  was  her  child,  in  whom  the 
world  centred.  When  the  farm  had  gone  for  debt,  and 
the  father  and  mother  had  died  within  two  weeks  of  each 
other,  she,  a  woman  of  twenty-four,  had  brought  the  ten- 
year-old  girl  with  her  to  the  city,  had  worked  for  her,  fought 
for  her,  and  had  conquered.  Courage  like  that  of  a  lioness 
defending  her  cub  had  nerved  the  timid  woman  to  tasks  too 
hard  for  her,  and  she  had  faced  situations  that  she  could  never 
have  faced  for  herself.  The  thought  of  that  yellow  head 
had  made  her  brave  through  the  dreary  years  of  shop-work. 
She  had  grown  old,  and  hollow-eyed,  and  ugly,  except  for 
the  eyes  that  transfigured  her  face. 

She  had  embarrassed  herself  by  touching  the  girl's  hair. 
Caresses  were  rare  between  the  sisters.  She  caught  sight 
of  the  table  and  sat  up  in  consternation. 

"  Not  eggs  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Ain't  they  two  cents 
apiece  ?  And  potatoes,  too  !  We  can't  be  extravagant !  " 

"  I  got  'em  for  a  penny,"  said  Mary.  "  Maybe  they 
ain't  good." 

Mary  chattered  through  supper.  She  told  her  sister  of 
the  sales  she  had  made,  and  of  the  advent  of  the  new  girl, 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  85 

an  awfully  pretty  girl  whose  name  was  Annice,  and  who 
looked  as  if  she  came  from  the  country.  The  last  word 
roused  Jennie,  who  was  not  interested  in  new  girls. 

"  Do  you  s'pose  the  old  quince-bush  is  alive  yet  ? " 
she  asked.  The  beauty  of  her  voice  was  sudden,  surprising, 
like  the  beauty  of  her  eyes.  It  was  the  voice  of  the 
spirit,  clear,  pure,  free. 

"  Like  as  not,"  answered  the  girl.  "  Oh,  wouldn't  I 
like  some  quince  preserves,  thick,  the  kind  we  had  when 
we  had  company  !  We'll  make  some  when  we  go  back. 
Did  mother  tell  you  how  to  put  'em  up  ?  " 

"I  used  to  put  'em  up  myself,"  said  the  older  woman, 
reproachfully.  "  Pound  for  pound,  and  be  careful  not  to 
boil  'em  too  long." 

They  sat  facing  each  other  across  the  buff  table-cloth  in 
the  flickering  light  of  a  tallow  candle.  To  Jennie,  the 
brilliant  colour  in  the  young  girl's  cheeks  and  the  gleams 
of  light  in  her  yellow  hair  made  the  whole  room  shine. 
They  had  finished  their  supper.  The  potatoes  had  been 
pared  very  close  to  the  skin.  Every  thread  of  white  of 
egg  had  been  scraped  from  the  shells,  and  the  last  crumb 
of  their  remnant  of  a  loaf  had  been  eaten. 

"  Wasn't  the  egg  good  ?  "  said  Jennie. 

"  Wasn't  it !  "  answered  Mary,  with  zeal.  They  both 
knew  better.  They  remembered  only  too  well  the  taste 
of  the  fresh  white  eggs  that  they  had  hunted  in  the  barn  in 
years  gone  by. 

"  Say,"  said  Mary,  excitedly.  "  How  soon  do  you  s'pose 
we  can  go  back  ?  " 

u  There's  just  ten  dollars  and  ten  cents  in  the  bank," 
answered  her  sister. 

"  We  could  mortgage  the  place,"  suggested  Mary. 

A  half  smile,  such  as  one  sees  on  the  faces  of  the  dead, 
whose  troubles  are  over,  flickered  across  Jennie  Burns's  gray 
face. 

"  We've  had  enough  mortgages,"  she  said. 

Hardly  a  day  had  passed  since  they  had  left  the  farm 


86  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 


an  allusion  to  their  plan  to  buy  it  back.  Mary 
earned  three  dollars  a  week ;  Jennie  two  and  a  half.  Their 
rent  was  two  dollars  a  week.  Of  the  remaining  three 
dollars  and  a  half,  when  the  price  of  food  and  of  clothing  for 
two  women  had  been  deducted,  there  was  little  left  for  the 
savings-bank.  Yet  they  never  relinquished  their  dream. 
The  loneliness  of  country  life  was  no  bugbear  to  then,  for 
they  were  Scotch,  with  passionate  love  for  the  spot  of 
earth  that  had  stood  to  them  for  home.  They  wanted  the 
old  door-stone,  the  old  graveyard,  the  path  through  the 
woods  to  the  rock-lot  pasture  where  they  had  driven  home 
the  cows. 

"We  ain't  anybody,  we  don't  belong  any  place  here," 
Jennie  said  suddenly.  "  There's  no  neighbours,  no  place  of 
your  own.  Who'd  lay  us  out  if  we  died  ?  " 

u  Shut  up !  "  said  Mary,  quickly. 

She  rose  in  haste  and  began  to  clear  away  the  dishes. 
Jennie  tried  to  follow  but  was  pushed  back  upon  her  pillow. 
Mary  tied  a  gingham  apron  over  her  black  gown,  betted 
water  in  a  tittle  dish-pan  over  the  kerosene  stove,  folded 
up  die  table-cloth  and  put  it  into  the  pasteboard  box  that 
served  as  linen  closet.  Jennie's  eyes  never  left  the  girl. 
The  tines  about  the  older  woman's  mouth  grew  tense  at 
she  watched,  and  the  slight  figure  in  the  drab  muslin  dress 
seemed  to  grow  longer.  Mary  hung  her  dish-towel  on  a 
white  cord  stretched  behind  the  stove,  then  came  back  to 
sit  by  die  bed.  The  candle  sputtered,  burned  almost  out. 

**  You  look  to-night  just  the  way  you  did  when  you  was 
six  years  old,"  said  Jennie. 

«  How  was  that  ?  "  the  girl  asked. 

tt  You  was  a  pretty  child,  with  your  little  round  face. 
I  used  to  wash  your  face  and  curl  your  hair  and  send  you 
off  to  school  in  your  clean  dress." 

"It  was  gingham,  tike  the  sunbonnet,"  said  Mary. 
"  You  made  it  for  me  and  you  used  to  do  it  up  yourself. 
I  remember  it  all" 

The  sunbonnet  hung  high  on   the  wall,  blue  gingham, 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  87 

with  one  string  gone.  It  had  been  to  Jennie  a  symbol  of 
hope,  a  flag,  a  promise  of  return  to  her  own  country. 

"  It  was  blue,"  said  Jennie,  "  with  scallops.  I  was  so 
proud  of  you !  Before  you  were  born  I  loved  the  cats. 
Then  it  always  seemed  as  if  you  belonged  to  me.  Mother 
was  so  busy." 

"  I  liked  it,"  said  the  girl,  softly. 

u  I  used  to  think  you'd  marry  a  rich  man,  and  I'd  come 
to  live  with  you  and  we'd  buy  a  headstone  for  father  and 
mother.  I  feel  real  bad  that  there  isn't  any." 

"We  don't  want  any  rich  man,"  said  Mary,  stoutly. 
"I'm  going  to  buy  the  farm  back  and  set  you  up  in  house- 
keeping. I've  got  thirty-five  cents  in  my  pocket  now." 
Say,  do  you  think  we'd  better  have  the  apple  tree  by  the 
pump  grafted  with  Spitzenburgs  ?  I  remember  father  said 
he  wanted  to.  He  used  to  like  'em.  And  you  can  make 
a  petunia  bed." 

Jennie  smiled.  Mary's  good  spirits  were  a  constant 
comfort.  But  she  turned  her  face  sadly  to  the  wall,  in  her 
eyes  the  shadow  of  a  great  fear. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

NDER  the  twofold  stimulus  of  his 
class-room  and  of  his  father's  unexpected 
opposition  to  the  inquiry  that  seemed 
to  the  young  man  imperative,  Henry 
Worthington  wakened  to  the  most  poig- 
nant intellectual  life  that  he  had  ever 
known.  The  faces  of  his  students 
were  a  challenge  to  his  brain.  Alfred  Worthington's  pro- 
test against  his  son's  criticism  of  Mr.  Gordon's  gift  to  the 
university,  and  of  the  methods  by  which  fortunes  like  that 
were  made,  spurred  on  the  son  to  establish  more  firmly  the 
grounds  of  his  belief.  Through  all  his  thought  and  all  his 
study  a  single  word  kept  sounding  in  his  ears.  It  was  his 
father's  harsh  "  Investigate." 

He  found  in  his  classes  relief  and  despair.  Sometimes 
the  terror  of  that  opening  session  in  Lecture  Room  A  came 
back  to  him.  For  the  most  part  it  visited  him  at  night, 
when  the  day's  excitement  kept  him  half  awake.  Then  he 
saw  outlined  against  the  darkness,  great  panoramic  visions 
of  young  men's  faces.  They  stood  out  with  singular  dis- 
tinctness. They  wore,  it  seemed  to  him,  an  air  of  reproach. 
Often  he  found  it  necessary  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
corridor  before  his  lecture  began,  clenching  his  hands  to 
raise  his  courage.  The  old  bashfulness  dogged  him  still. 
But  once  on  the  field  of  battle,  all  phantoms  vanished. 

88 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  89 

He  was  not  afraid  of  the  direct  gaze  of  those  keen  eyes. 
He  ceased  to  care  about  his  blunders.  A  class  detected 
him  one  day  in  a  mistake :  he  gloried  in  their  acuteness. 
They  asked  him  on  another  occasion  some  questions  about 
the  Russian  tariff. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  answered,  with  unaccountable 
satisfaction.  "  Find  out.  Look  it  up.  The  days  of  the 
omniscient  schoolmaster  are  over.  What  are  you  for 
except  to  search  things  out  for  yourselves  ? " 

There  was  inspiration  in  his  very  shortcomings.  They 
meant  scope,  opportunity,  need  of  working  on.  A  feeling 
of  exultation  came  to  him  as  he  realized  that  he  and  these 
students  were  standing  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  a  common 
fight.  Sometimes  all  sense  of  self  left  him,  and  he  ceased 
to  remember  that  he  was  there  at  all,  in  those  eager  dis- 
cussions where  steel  met  steel  in  a  war  of  ideas.  For  so 
long  a  time,  at  least,  he  was  identified  with  something 
larger  than  himself.  His  sense  of  ownership  in  these  young 
minds  widened  existence  for  him.  The  shock  of  contact 
with  them  touched  every  day  to  keener  life  the  strong 
individuality  working  its  way  out  into  power.  Responsi- 
bility gave  zest  to  his  thinking.  Oh,  the  vivid  pleasure  of 
waking  in  the  night  with  a  half  grasp  on  a  new  idea,  fol- 
lowing it  a  little  way,  going  to  sleep,  weary,  on  the  trail, 
ready  for  further  pursuit  with  waking !  And  the  sharp 
sting  of  that  fresh  idealism,  yearning  to  do,  to  achieve,  to 
stamp  itself  on  the  little  world  about  him ! 

It  was  not  his  own  ideals  that  he  wished  to  impress 
upon  his  students,  he  said  to  himself.  He  was  endeavouring 
to  waken  them  to  a  sharper  sense  of  their  own.  In  their 
class  work  as  in  matters  of  opinion  they  were  to  investigate, 
sift,  prove  for  themselves,  accepting  no  man's  judgment,  in 
the  end,  but  their  own.  The  doctrine  his  father  had  taught 
him  long  ago,  of  not  living  up  to  other  people's  convictions 
and  opinions,  became  the  key-note  of  the  young  man's 
work.  And  the  weary  student,  with  empty  note-book  and 
docile  brain,  gazed  in  despair  at  the  tomes  he  must  con- 


9o  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

suit  in  working  out  his  hard  problems.  He  was  so  willing 
to  be  led,  so  loath  to  start  out  for  himself.  He  regretted 
the  days  of  his  fathers,  when  college  work  had  meant  taking 
conclusions  safely  from  a  book,  or  setting  them  down, 
first,  second,  third,  fourth,  from  a  lecturer's  lips.  An  un- 
toward generation  has  thrown  upon  youth  a  new  responsi- 
bility in  the  very  matter  of  learning  the  alphabet. 

Hard  on  the  heels  of  the  moments  full  of  the  sense  of 
power,  came  moments  of  pale  dejection.  He  could  do 
nothing,  Henry  said  to  himself  at  times  like  these,  walking 
up  and  down  his  own  room,  his  hands  thrust  into  his 
pockets.  What  was  he,  he  asked  of  the  downcast  face  he 
saw  distorted  in  the  old-fashioned,  gilt-framed  mirror,  that 
he  should  aspire  to  guide  other  men  ? 

"I  am  not  fit,"  he  would  groan,  resting  his  elbows  on 
the  high  bureau,  and  running  his  fingers  through  his  soft 
brown  hair.  "  I'm  an  ignorant  impostor.  I've  got  hold 
of  a  thing  I  can't  handle.  How  can  I  wake  those  boys 
up  ?  I'm  not  worthy  to  touch  one  of  the  rounds  of  a 
professorial  chair." 

The  mood  of  failure  came  to  him  oftenest  in  his  room, 
where  the  helplessness  of  his  childhood  seemed  to  linger. 
The  great  mahogany  bed  suggested  it,  as  did  the  quaint 
rosebuds  in  the  wall  paper,  and  the  pictures  in  oaken 
frames,  Hermes,  Apollo,  and  the  quoit  players.  The  pro- 
fessor had  wished  his  son  to  be  surrounded  by  images  of 
youthful  power  and  triumphant  strength.  These  figures 
taunted  the  young  man  now,  reminding  him  of  his  impo- 
tent babyhood  and  suggesting  the  great  gulf  between  vision 
and  fulfilment.  His  feet  were  not  winged  like  those  of 
Hermes.  They  stumbled  and  went  astray. 

Oh,  if  his  father  had  only  met  in  a  different  way  that 
confession  in  regard  to  the  work  he  wished  to  do ! 
It  was  the  haunting  suggestion  of  his  father,  the  sight 
or  the  memory  of  that  new  sadness  in  his  face,  which 
robbed  Henry,  when  he  was  at  home,  of  all  peace.  A 
shadow  lay  across  the  sunshine.  That  grieved  look  was 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  91 

too  much  to  bear.  Should  he  abandon  this  new  interest, 
shut  his  eyes  to  those  things  his  conscience  forbade  him  to 
approve,  and  settle  down  to  the  old  comfort,  working  with 
his  books  in  the  light  of  his  father's  smile  ? 

The  temptation  was  a  strong  one.  Not  a  word  in 
regard  to  the  disagreement  had  been  uttered  by  father  or 
son  since  their  one  discussion  of  the  matter.  Neither  had 
forgotten  it  for  an  instant.  They  talked  more  when  they 
were  together  than  they  had  been  in  the  habit  of  doing. 
To  each  the  thought  came  with  a  little  sense  of  incon- 
gruity that  they  were  obliged,  being  ill  at  ease  when  silent, 
to  engage  in  polite  conversation  now.  They  even  avoided 
each  other.  Henry  took  long  walks  by  himself,  near  the 
sea  or  inland  among  the  hills.  Alfred  Worthington  went 
sometimes  to  his  laboratory  in  the  evening,  saying,  apolo- 
getically, that  he  must  consult  a  book  left  there.  He  took 
pains  to  leave  books  there  now.  Henry  watched  him  with 
a  slight  sense  of  injury  at  the  neglect.  It  had  felt  like 
that  long  ago  when  his  father  had  looked  out  of  the  window 
toward  the  cemetery  and  had  forgotten  the  child  upon  his 
knee.  He  was  succeeding  brilliantly,  people  said,  and  his 
father  apparently  did  not  care.  He  felt  a  loss  of  that 
encompassing  love  that  he  had  taken  for  granted,  always, 
thankful  or  thankless  as  the  case  might  be.  For  once,  the 
supply  did  not  equal  the  demand.  For  once,  his  father's 
face  could  not  answer  his  difficult  question  for  him. 

It  was  that  face,  with  its  disappointed  look,  that  drove  him 
on.  He  consulted  business  men  in  the  city.  He  studied 
over  trusts  and  monopolies,  the  management  of  the  stock- 
market,  of  department-shops  in  Winthrop.  He  was  on 
his  mettle.  Answering  in  his  own  mind  the  objections  his 
father  had  urged  against  his  present  course,  the  reasons  for 
going  on  seemed  irresistible.  To  prove  to  his  father's 
sense  of  logic  the  justice  of  his  action  ;  to  make  himself 
worthy  of  the  teaching  that  had  formed  his  boyhood  — 
teaching  which  had  said  to  set  high  the  standard,  to  fail  in 
the  great  thing  rather  than  succeed  in  the  small,  to  follow 


92  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

conviction  at  the  expense  of  all  else;  surely,  Henry  said 
to  himself,  this  was  worthy  of  his  utmost  effort.  So  the 
dispute  which  was  robbing  the  elder  Worthington  of  his 
energy,  and  taking  all  life  from  his  work,  became,  for  the 
younger  man,  an  effective  goad.  Henry,  like  his  father, 
was,  in  his  mental  processes,  steady,  unresting,  crossing 
the  ground  but  once.  His  father's  eyes  were  his  punish- 
ment and  his  inspiration. 

His  special  problem  defined  itself  slowly  for  him.  Do 
what  he  would,  he  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  Gordon 
gift.  He  would  go  and  investigate  the  notorious  Smith's. 
That  was  simple,  immediate,  practical.  He  formed  a  cun- 
ning plan.  He  would  go  to  the  different  counters,  buy 
some  small  article  at  each,  and  then  engage  in  casual  con- 
versation with  the  clerk  who  waited  on  him.  In  this  way 
he  could  gain  information  at  its  very  source.  He  sat, 
early  one  afternoon,  at  the  library  table,  making  out  in  his 
note-book  a  list  of  questions  he  would  ask. 

1.  Hours  of  work. 

2.  System  of  fines. 

3.  Wages. 

4.  Seats  for  clerks  during  leisure  hours. 

5.  Expenses  of  living. 

6.  Amount  and  disposition  of  fines. 

He  was  writing  them  out  in  the  firm  hand  which  be- 
trayed much  of  his  individuality,  when  his  father  entered. 
There  was  a  broad  smile  on  the  professor's  face.  He  held 
in  his  hand  the  latest  copy  of  Life.  He  had  a  joke  to 
show  to  Henry. 

"  A  lecture  ? "  asked  Alfred  Worthington,  as  he  ap- 
proached the  table  and  saw  the  note-book  in  his  son's 
hand. 

"  No,"  answered  Henry,  flushing.      "  A  memorandum." 

"  Going  shopping  ?  " 

The  father's  finger  was  pointing  out  the  witticism  in 
the  paper  held  out  toward  Henry. 

"No,"   said    Henry,   looking    steadily   into   his    father's 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  93 

eyes,  but  visibly  embarrassed.  "  I  am  going  to  investigate 
the  workings  of  Mr.  Gordon's  establishment  in  North 
Winthrop." 

Life  dropped  to  the  floor.  The  professor  turned  and 
left  the  room,  but  not  quickly  enough  to  hide  the  look  of 
disgust  on  his  face.  Henry  thrust  his  note-book  roughly 
into  the  depths  of  his  pocket,  and  put  his  hand  up  over  his 
eyes.  Should  he  go  ?  It  hurt  to  see  his  father  look  like 
that.  Why  not  keep  silence  ?  He  rose  and  went  toward 
the  door,  then  turned  back.  That  chair  by  the  fire  looked 
very  comfortable,  and  there  was  a  new  book  on  the  table, 
with  uncut  leaves.  What  would  it  matter  if  he  gave  it 
all  up  ?  His  smooth  white  forehead  puckered  into  a  frown, 
and  his  hand  moved  restlessly  across  the  back  of  the  leather- 
covered  easy-chair.  Then  suddenly  the  hand  took  hold 
of  the  leather  with  a  grasp  that  left  an  impress  of  three 
fingers  there  all  the  afternoon.  It  would  make  so  little 
difference,  and  yet,  it  was  all  the  difference  between  faith- 
fulness and  unfaithfulness.  He  could  not  be  false  to  his 
best  insight.  He  could  not  be  numbered  among  those  who 
had  made  the  great  refusal.  Henry  went  out  slowly  into 
the  hall,  put  his  hat  on  hard,  and  walked  away.  He  did 
not  turn  to  look  at  the  house.  For  a  minute  he  wished 
that  the  immediate  manner  of  expressing  his  great  convic- 
tion to  the  world  meant  some  errand  less  grotesque  than 
this. 

He  walked  on,  lost  in  thought,  his  head  bent.  Mrs. 
Appleton's  carriage  met  him,  but  he  failed  to  greet  the 
lady,  not  knowing  that  she  was  there.  Mrs.  Appleton 
remarked  to  the  companion  who  was  going  to  the  station 
to  see  her  off  for  Florida,  that  Henry  Worthington  looked 
like  a  young  Caesar,  and  acted  like  a  bear-cub.  Henry 
went  serenely  on.  He  saw  little  and  heard  nothing  until 
he  found  himself  inside  the  door  of  Smith's.  He  had  dis- 
covered the  whereabouts  of  the  place  before.  He  was 
absent-mindedly  studying  his  memorandum  book  when  a 
sharp  voice  asked  him  what  he  wanted. 


94  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

"  Pins,"  he  answered  promptly. 

"  Black  or  white  ?  " 

He  did  not  care. 

The  girl  at  the  notion  counter  looked  contemptuously 
at  him  and  waited. 

"  Black,"  he  said  hastily. 

"  English  or  American  ?  " 

The  young  economist  held  that  Americans  should  buy 
home  wares,  and  he  chose  the  latter,  ignorant  of  the  fact 
that  both  the  English  and  the  American  pins  had  been 
made  in  the  same  New-Jersey  factory.  As  he  waited  he 
approached  the  girl  with  a  question.  She  was  a  Jewess, 
black-haired,  black-eyed.  She  looked  at  him  with  suspicion 
as  he  asked  her  in  kindly  fashion  about  her  hours  of  work. 

"We  don't  want  no  reporters  round  here,"  she  said 
savagely.  "  I  s'pose  you  is  doin'  a  Sunday-paper  article, 
and  you'll  put  our  names  in  and  call  it :  l  White  Slaves ; 
Oppression  of  the  Working  Girl ! '  and  then  we'll  lose  our 
places.  How  many  hours  a  day  do  I  work  ?  I  work  as 
many  as  I  please." 

She  winked  at  the  girl  next  her.  The  wounded  knight- 
errant  moved  slowly  away.  He  did  not  know  that  the 
Jewess  was  smarting  from  a  well-meant,  philanthropic 
wrong  such  as  she  had  described. 

"  Tell  him  to  come  back  after  his  pins,"  said  the  clerk 
to  a  cash-girl. 

He  came  back.     He  was  glad  his  father  was  not  there. 

This  was  hard,  but  Henry  was  an  obstinate  young  man. 
His  resolution  to  carry  out  his  purpose  grew  firmer.  He 
looked  down  a  line  of  counters,  meditating,  then  stared  at 
one  near  by.  It  was  covered  with  white  aprons. 

"  Did  you  want  anything  in  our  line,  sir  ?  "  asked  the 
girl  behind  the  counter.  She  was  a  girl  with  unabashed 
eyes,  and  bleached  yellow  hair.  She  nudged  another  girl 
as  she  spoke.  Both  giggled.  A  little  girl  with  two  long 
braids  was  coming  toward  him.  He  stopped  her. 

"  Are  you  busy  ? "  he  asked.  / 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  95 

"  Yes,"  said  the  child. 

"  Haven't  you  time  to  answer  a  question  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Are  you  a  cash-girl  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  surprised  at  his  ignorance,  "  I'm  a 
bundler."  And  she  left  him. 

Henry  looked  ignominiously  for  the  door.  It  had  dis- 
appeared. Nothing  but  an  entrance  to  the  yawning  base- 
ment suggested  a  way  of  escape.  He  was  grieved.  Once, 
in  his  economic  investigations,  he  had  visited  an  orphan- 
asylum  in  the  country.  Thirty  or  forty  children  had 
crowded  round  him  in  the  matron's  absence,  and  had 
begged  him  to  take  them  away.  He  had  thrilled  with  pity 
at  the  sight  of  the  bare  feet,  the  tangled  hair,  the  pleading, 
childish  faces.  Someway,  he  had  half  expected  that  it 
would  be  like  that  when  he  came  to  Smith's,  and  the  cold- 
ness of  his  reception  daunted  him.  He  seemed  to  be  un- 
necessary. He  was  even  in  the  way. 

Suddenly  his  eyes  lighted  on  a  girl  who  looked  different 
from  the  rest.  She  stood  at  the  toy-counter,  gazing  out, 
beyond  the  things  that  confronted  her,  at  something  the 
others  did  not  see.  She  was  very  pretty.  Smooth  brown 
hair  was  brushed  straight  back  from  her  low  forehead,  leav- 
ing a  wavering,  undecided,  bewitching  line.  Even  the 
hideous  blue  calico  waist  she  wore  could  not  spoil  the  faint 
pink  colouring  of  her  cheeks.  The  scarlet  lips  kept  quiv- 
ering into  sensitive  curves.  Henry  eyed  her  carefully. 
She  must  be  different.  She  was  so  much  more  plainly 
dressed  than  the  others.  And  she  looked  so  sad !  Hers 
was  the  only  face  that  showed  a  consciousness  of  the 
tragedy  of  her  lot. 

He  approached. 

"  I  want,"  he  hesitated.  What  did  he  want  ?  What 
had  he  played  with  when  he  was  a  child  ?  Toys  swam 
before  him.  The  girl's  eyelids  were  lifted  now,  and  her 
eyes  sparkled  at  his  confusion  with  a  mischief  that  belied 
the  gravity  of  her  face. 


96  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

"  A  woolly  lamb,"  he  demanded. 

Three  different  sizes  were  presented  to  him  ;  twenty-five 
cents,  thirty  cents,  fifty  cents. 

He  delayed.  This  girl  was  courteous.  Here  was  his 
opportunity.  And  yet,  questions  now  seemed  impertinent. 

"  This  is  an  appropriate  gift  for  a  child  ? "  he  asked. 

"  How  old  is  the  child  ?  " 

"  Eight." 

Henry  did  not  dare  look  at  her.  He  could  think  of  no 
child,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  except  his  young  friend 
next  door  in  Lancaster  Place.  He  knew  that  he  had  made 
a  blunder. 

"  That  is  a  rather  youthful  gift  for  a  boy  of  eight,"  the 
girl  was  saying,  in  a  very  business-like  way.  "Would  a 
book  be  better  ?  '* 

He  stole  a  look  at  her.  What  a  perfect  manner  she 
had  !  He  thrilled  with  pride  for  his  country.  Nov/here 
else  could  one  find  working  girls  who  were  ladies.  Else- 
where they  might  be  pretty  —  not  so  pretty  as  she  was  — 
but  a  vulgar  something,  a  desire  to  attract,  spoiled  the 
whole.  This  girl  had  the  dignity  of  a  queen's  daughter. 
He  wondered  at  the  slenderness  of  her  hands.  She  was 
looking  away  from  him. 

Might  he  ask  her  a  question  about  the  conditions  of 
work  here  ?  he  inquired,  deferentially. 

"Certainly,"  said  the  girl,  with  one  quick,  surprised 
glance  at  him. 

Henry  apologized  and  explained.  His  father  would  have 
been  quite  satisfied  with  his  son's  manners  at  the  present 
time.  He  was  working  up  certain  phases  of  industrial 
conditions  in  the  city,  he  said.  Some  points  had  to  be 
investigated  in  a  practical  way.  If  he  asked  anything  she 
would  rather  not  answer,  would  she  please  tell  him  so  at 
once  ? 

The  girl  bowed,  in  silence. 

What  were  the  hours  ? 

"  From  eight  to  six." 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  97 

The  rest  at  noon? 

"  Half  an  hour." 

The  range  of  wages  ? 

"  I  haven't  been  able  to  discover,"  said  the  girl,  eagerly. 
"The  clerks  seem  afraid  of  questions.  They  go  down  as 
far  as  a  dollar  a  week  for  the  cash-girls,"  she  said  sadly. 
Then  she  looked  up,  caught  Henry's  intent  gaze,  and 
flushed  with  vexation.  She  too  had  made  a  blunder. 

"  I  have  two  dollars  a  week,"  she  added.  "I  am  a 
beginner." 

Was  it  hard  work  ? 

u  Very."  Her  lips  trembled  a  little.  This  questioning 
came  near  home.  Conditions  of  work  at  Smith's  were  her 
shame.  Yet  she  watched  this  probing  into  things  with  a 
feeling  of  thankfulness.  A  momentary  sense  of  shifting 
the  burden  of  the  world  to  this  young  man's  shoulders 
brought  her  relief. 

Were  clerks  allowed  to  sit  down  when  they  were  not 
busy  ? 

The  girl's  lips  curled. 

"  Chairs  are  provided,"  she  answered  quietly.  "  The 
law  requires  it.  But  we  are  fined  if  we  use  them.  The 
law  has  not  grasped  that." 

The  old  chivalric  longing  to  deliver  damsels  in  distress 
did  not  die  with  the  knights  of  Arthur's  court.  Henry 
Worthington,  as  he  stood  by  the  toy-counter,  vowed  him- 
self to  the  deliverance  of  the  working  girl.  For  delicate 
women  to  stand  on  their  feet  from  eight  in  the  morning 
until  six  at  night,  even  until  eleven  o'clock  on  special  days, 
was  condemnation  enough  for  any  system.  The  slight 
hollows  in  this  girl's  temples  cried  out  against  Smith's. 
Henry  had  mistaken  the  quiver  of  her  lips  for  self-pity, 
and  his  manhood  had  risen  in  response.  He  thought  of 
his  father  with  an  actual  sense  of  irritation.  For  once  his 
father  was  wrong. 

"For  the  first  time,"  said  Henry,  "in  a  moral  question." 

He  lingered,  with   his   package   in  his   hand.     He  had 


98  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

compromised  on  a  pair  of  horse-lines,  not  daring  to  tell 
this  young  woman  who  had  made  the  suggestion  that  his 
friend  was  a  little  girl.  A  customer  approached,  leading 
by  the  hand  a  chubby  four-year-old  boy. 

"He  wants  a  cart,"  said  the  mother.  She  was  a  plain- 
faced,  plump  country  woman,  in  a  worn  alpaca  gown. 

"  Wid  weels  !  "  said  the  child,  smacking  his  lips  voluptu- 
ously. 

The  cart  was  found,  resplendent  with  red  tongue  and 
yellow  box. 

"  It's  a  dollar  and  a  half,"  said  the  clerk. 

The  woman  flushed  and  turned  away. 

"Come,  Jimmie,"  she  said;  "we'll  find  another  cart." 

The  child  burst  into  a  roar  so  loud,  so  deep,  so  mature, 
so  beyond  the  power  of  his  four  years,  that  Henry  Worth- 
ington  jumped,  startled  out  of  his  train  of  thought. 

"  I  ain't  got  but  a  dollar,"  whispered  the  customer, 
apologetically.  "  I'll  see  if  I  can't  find  a  cheaper  one." 

The  economist  waked  up.  He  looked  hesitatingly  at 
the  girl  behind  the  counter.  The  child,  gazing  at  the 
gorgeous  cart,  roared  on. 

"  Could  you,  would  you  permit  me  to  pay  the  difference 
for  the  little  lad  ?  "  said  Henry.  "  I  know  all  about  it. 
I've  been  there  myself." 

The  girl  had  drawn  a  little  gold-mounted  purse  from 
her  pocket. 

u  Let  me,"  she  said. 

"Let  me,"  said  Henry  Worthington. 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other  for  a  minute,  while 
the  woman,  bending  over  the  child,  failed  to  see  what  they 
were  doing. 

"  It  is  my  privilege,  as  a  man,"  said  Henry,  masterfully, 
and  the  girl  yielded,  meekly  holding  out  her  hand  for  the 
coin. 

"  I  can  let  you  have  the  cart  for  a  dollar,"  said  the  clerk 
at  the  toy-counter,  looking  guilty  from  her  consciousness  of 
deceit.  Then  she  gazed  at  her  customer  beseechingly. 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  99 

"  Would  the  little  boy  be  willing  to  take  it  as  it  is,  with- 
out having  it  done  up  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  helplessly  at 
the  rolls  of  wrapping-paper. 

"All  the  better,"  said  the  woman,  happy  in  her  bargain, 
and  the  baby  trundled  his  cart  away,  blissfully  dragging  it 
between  people's  ankles,  tripping  up  angry  customers  at 
Smith's. 

Henry  was  thanking  the  girl  for  the  service  she  had  done 
him,  apologizing  for  troubling  her. 

"  I  am  interested  in  those  things  myself,"  she  said,  look- 
ing at  him  with  her  marvellous,  changing  eyes.  "  I  wish 
I  could  have  been  of  more  use.  I  have  not  been  here  long 
enough  to  be  very  well  informed." 

"  How  long  ?  " 

"  Only  two  days." 

Might  he  ask  if  she  had  done  just  this  kind  of  work 
before  ? 

"That,"  she  answered  with  severity,  "can  hardly  help 
your  investigation." 

He  apologized  humbly. 

"  I  was  merely  wondering,"  he  explained,  "  whether 
previous  experience  had  put  you  into  possession  of  any  of 
the  facts  I  wish  to  know." 

The  girl  relented. 

"  It  is  very  difficult,"  she  said,  "  to  get  possession  of  any 
facts.  Questions  rouse  suspicion.  I  presume  that  it  is 
easier  for  outsiders  to  find  out  about  things.  I  may  lose 
my  position  if  I  talk  too  much,  and  I  hardly  know  where 
to  begin." 

The  young  man's  keen  gaze  made  her  uncomfortable. 
She  pointed  toward  the  counter  of  ready-made  clothing. 

"  How  can  I  find  out  about  those  things  ?  "  she  asked. 

"You  can't,"  said  the  young  man,  briefly.  "I've  tried. 
Take  those  waists.  Nobody  knows  where  they  were  made. 
The  shop  gets  them  from  a  contractor.  The  contractor 
gets  them  presumably  from  sweater-shops.  They  are  sold 
at  outrageously  low  prices,  and  of  course  the  workers  are 


ioo  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

cheated,  for  the  middleman  must  have  his  profit.  But  you 
simply  can't  trace  the  special  garment  back  to  the  special 
hole  where  it  was  made.'" 

"  Then  one  person  isn't  responsible  for  it  all  ? "  asked 
the  girl,  earnestly.  She  was  pleading  her  father's  cause  as 
before  a  judge,  and  the  eyes  that  rested  on  him  were  the 
eyes  of  a  hurt  child.  They  were  critical,  too,  as  if  search- 
ing the  world  for  something  to  trust.  The  young  man's 
expression  betrayed  an  interest  in  her  rather  than  in  her 
question,  and  the  light  died  out  of  her  face  like  a  little 
flame.  She  turned  to  a  customer. 

He  waited,  stupidly,  and  watched  her.  Were  all  work- 
ing girls  so  intelligent  ?  Her  interest  in  this  problem 
seemed  more  vital  than  his.  Her  information  was  cer- 
tainly more  complete.  Probably  she  belonged  to  a  union. 
He  had  heard  that  the  unions  had  had  great  influence  in 
broadening  the  outlook  of  working  girls.  He  would  wait 
and  ask  her  a  few  more  questions.  It  was  his  duty. 

He  resented -the  customer.  She  had  aggressive,  coarse, 
gray  hair.  He  did  not  like  the  way  in  which  she  talked  to 
the  girl  at  the  toy-counter.  Now  she  had  gone,  but  the 
girl  did  not  come  back.  She  stood,  with  her  profile  toward 
him,  looking  away.  She  probably  came,  poor  child,  from 
some  poverty-stricken  home,  and  this  delicate  beauty  had 
been  bequeathed  to  her  by  an  overworked  mother. 

Still  she  ignored  his  existence.  It  was  hard  for  a  young 
person  of  importance  like  himself.  His  students  did  not 
treat  him  in  that  way,  he  said  to  himself,  and  he  was 
almost  angry,  as  he  waited,  standing.  She  did  not  look. 
Presently  he  advanced  toward  her,  the  lamb  in  his  hand. 

"I  want  that,  please,"  he  said,  with  an  injured  air. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  the  girl,  simply.  "I  thought  you 
decided  not  to  take  it.  Do  you  wish  to  have  it  delivered  ? 
Fifty  cents." 

Henry  walked  to  the  door  with  an  overwhelming  con- 
viction that  this  line  of  investigation  was  the  right  one  for 
him  to  follow. 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  101 

The  girl  at  the  toy-counter  did  not  watch  him.  She 
did  not  smile,  but  there  was  a  queer  little  quiver  in  her 
under  lip.  This  present  tragedy  had  comic  moments. 
She  drew  a  great  sigh  and  said  under  her  breath  :  — 

"  I  wish  that  things  didn't  seem  so  funny  to  me  some- 
times." 

Her  eyelids  were  held  resolutely  down  over  her  dancing 
eyes. 


CHAPTER  IX 

"I   cannot  but  remember  such  things  were 
That  were  most  precious  to  me."      Macbeth. 

HE  conversation  that  Henry  and  his 
father  had  begun  at  their  own  door 
overlapped  their  walk.  Now  they  were 
pacing  up  and  down  under  the  maples 
that  bordered  the  driveway  of  Benedict 
Warren's  ancestral  home.  The  light  of 
the  stars  was  fading  in  the  light  of  the 
autumn  moon  that  rose  slowly  over  the  hill  toward  the  east. 
Alfred  Worthington  lingered  out  of  doors  for  the  beauty  of 
branch  and  twig  in  moonlight  and  in  shadow,  and  for  the 
pleasure  of  Henry's  company.  He  was  in  haste,  too. 
There  was  much  to  say  to  his  crony,  for  the  conver- 
sation at  Mrs.  Appleton's  concerning  the  footprints  in 
the  stone  had  started  a  long  train  of  thought  that  had  been 
going  on  ever  since.  Warren  was  altogether  too  much  of 
a  free-lance  in  the  world  of  thought.  The  professor  was 
intolerant  of  easily  held  theories  and  opinions  and  demanded 
that  a  man's  beliefs  should  be  proved  and  tried  in  thought, 
study,  act.  A  reproof  was  ready  for  his  friend.  Yet  he 
delayed  in  sending  Henry  back.  The  pleasure  caused  by 
the  boy's  offer  to  escort  him  revealed  to  the  professor  how 
much  he  had  felt  the  lack  of  similar  attentions  in  the  last 
few  weeks. 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  103 

He  asked  Henry  the  result  of  his  visit  to  Smith's,  trying 
hard  to  overcome  his  repugnance  to  the  topic. 

"  Did  you  find  things  as  bad  as  you  had  expected  ?  "  he 
inquired. 

Henry  hesitated.  The  vision  of  a  girl's  face,  pale,  with 
slight  hollows  at  the  temples,  outlined  itself  in  the  darkness. 
It  seemed  to  plead  for  all  girls  in  all  similar  places. 

"  Worse,"  he  answered  briefly.  "  Of  course  I  haven't 
had  time  to  do  anything  except  make  a  beginning.  I 
found  a  young  man  in  the  shipping-department  who  could 
answer  my  questions  intelligently.  I've  seen  enough  and 
heard  enough  to  know  that  the  owner  of  that  place  is 
guilty  of  sins  as  grave  as  outright  lying  and  outright 
stealing.  The  shop  is  slow  murder  for  half  the  people 
employed." 

Alfred  Worthington  watched  with  pride  the  boy's  face, 
alive  with  inward  fire.  It  was  possible  even  to  admire  the 
mistaken  enthusiasms  of  youth. 

"  Granting  that  your  charges  are  true,"  said  the  father, 
gravely,  "  can  you  refuse  a  repentant  human  being  a 
chance  to  atone  for  old  wrong-doing  by  present  endeavour 
to  do  good  ?  In  Europe  church  and  university  have  received 
penitence-money  from  the  Middle  Ages  down,  and  so  have 
extended  forgiveness  to  the  sinner." 

"  There  have  been  a  great  many  abuses  handed  down  in 
Europe  from  the  Middle  Ages  that  we  don't  want  to  see 
transplanted  to  our  virgin  soil,"  answered  Henry,  grimly, 
touching  the  turf  with  his  foot.  "And  it  isn't  a  case  of 
repentance.  It's  a  case  of  a  man  who  wants  to  be  counte- 
nanced in  further  wrong-doing." 

"  But,  Henry,"  pleaded  the  father,  "you  cannot  be  an 
iconoclast  like  that.  For  every  conscientious  man  to  do  as 
you  say  would  undermine  society." 

"That's  a  sad  confession,  sir,"  said  Henry,  turning  a 
pair  of  exultant  eyes  upon  his  father.  "  Then  you  do 
agree  with  me  a  little.  If  society  is  rotten  and  corrupt, 
it  ought  to  be  undermined.  But  I  don't  advocate  anything 


104  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

of  the  kind.  All  I  ask  is  for  people  with  consciences  to 
set  a  standard  by  refusing  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
money  obtained  by  unfair  means." 

The  two  men  had  stopped.  They  were  facing  each 
other  in  the  gateway. 

"You  and  I,  my  son,"  said  the  older  man,  gently,  "  do 
not  earn  the  money  given  to  our  university,  and  are  not  re- 
sponsible for  it.  We  work  with  our  brains  for  our  alma 
mater.  That  is  our  task." 

"  But  if  we  accept  that  money  we  do  produce  it," 
answered  Henry,  eagerly.  "  It  will  continue  to  be  earned 
in  that  way  so  long  as  it  is  approved  by  the  people  in  our 
position.  One  of  our  best  economists  holds  that  the  buyer 
of  sweater-made  clothing  is  really  the  producer  of  that  class 
of  work.  So  the  consumer  of  dishonest  money  is  really 
responsible  for  its  existence." 

The  term  "  sweater-made "  jarred  unpleasantly  on  the 
professor's  ears.  This  constant  intrusion  of  vulgar  practi- 
calities into  the  scholar's  mind  was  irritating.  The  days 
that  had  passed  had  made  him  more  and  more  unable  to 
understand  this  impertinent  interference  with  other  people's 
affairs  that  Henry  called  sociology.  To  him  it  seemed  that 
the  boy's  mind  was  being  drawn  away  from  close  attention 
to  the  subject  he  was  teaching.  That  his  son  should 
begin  to  dabble  in  things  in  general  was  a  thought  too 
painful  for  the  professor  to  follow  to  its  consequences. 
Deeper  than  the  hurt  to  intellect  was  the  hurt  to  honour, 
now  that  Henry  was  about  to  make  a  personal  matter  of 
the  whole  thing  and  look  up  Gordon's  business  record. 

"  If  you  persist,"  said  the  father,  starting  slowly  toward 
the  house,  "  I  shall  consider  it  my  duty  to  warn  Gordon  of 
what  you  are  doing.  The  whole  thing  seems  underhanded 
to  me.  You  must  have  found  some  code  of  honour  that  your 
grandfather  did  not  know." 

"  Father,"  protested  Henry,  grinding  the  gravel  with  his 
heel  in  his  young  indignation.  "  You  are  utterly  unjust  to 
me.  It  is  the  first  time,  I  own,  in  twenty-six  years. 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  105 

You  don't  see  that  I  am  simply  carrying  out  your  teaching. 
It  is  a  matter  of  conscience.  The  thing  isn't  any  less  dis- 
agreeable to  me  than  it  is  to  you.  It  is  simply  a  duty  that 
can't  be  shirked,  in  honour.  Doesn't  Winthrop's  honour 
rest  with  us  ?  " 

He  squared  his  shoulders.  His  own  responsibility  was 
dear  to  him. 

"  Then  you  are  going  on  ?  " 

"  There  is  nothing  else  to  do,"  said  Henry,  doggedly. 

They  parted  at  the  doorstep  without  another  word.  The 
father  laid  his  hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder  before  Henry 
turned  to  go.  Then  Professor  Worthington  lifted  the 
great  knocker,  and  the  next  minute  he  had  forgotten  his 
perplexities  in  Benedict  Warren's  presence.  The  latter 
had  been  walking  up  and  down  the  hall  in  slow  impatience, 
smoking. 

They  went  into  the  den.  It  had  been  the  parlour  in  the 
time  of  Warren's  grandmother.  Now  it  was  carpetless  and 
almost  devoid  of  furniture.  There  was  a  stone  fireplace 
covering  half  of  one  side  of  the  room.  In  front  of  it  was 
stretched  Ulysses.  Two  or  three  fishing-rods  hung  on  the 
wall,  a  gun  above  the  door.  An  enormous  square  table 
with  claw  feet  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  Tall  book- 
cases occupied  one  wall  space,  filled  with  German  philos- 
ophy, French  essays,  seventeenth-century  English  prose, 
and  "The  Sacred  Books  of  the  East."  They  bore  witness 
to  the  vagrant  mind  of  their  owner,  for  Warren  in  his 
tastes  was  intensely  personal  and  one-sided. 

u  What  do  I  want  to  know  all  that  for  ? "  he  had  pro- 
tested once  when  Worthington  had  remonstrated  against 
the  narrowness  of  his  tastes,  pleading  for  a  more  rounded 
view  of  things.  "  That's  all  good  enough  information, 
but  it  doesn't  belong  to  me.  I'm  not  interested  in  it.  I 
tell  you,  it's  a  great  thing  for  a  man  to  know  what  he 
really  cares  about  and  to  stick  to  it.  Some  people  can't 
tell  the  difference  between  their  own  tastes  and  other 
people's.  My  commandment  is,  4  Thou  shalt  not  steal 


io6  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

thy  Neighbour's  fact.'  Now  the  world's  full  of  things  I 
don't  want  to  know  about.  I'm  not  responsible  for  the 
whole  universe.  You  spend  more  time  in  finding  out  a 
thing  that  isn't  worth  knowing  —  " 

"And  you,"  retorted  his  friend,  "take  more  trouble  to 
avoid  learning  a  thing  that  you  really  ought  to  know  than 
it  would  cost  you  to  find  it  out  seven  times  over." 

To-night  the  host  brought  out  the  chess-board "  in  si- 
lence, and  took  from  the  table  drawer  a  set  of  beautifully 
carved  ivory  chessmen.  From  eight  until  nearly  eleven 
o'clock  the  two  men  played  —  a  single  game.  They 
were  well  matched..  Warren  eyed  his  guest,  furtively.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  Worthington  was  letting  himself  be 
beaten. 

"  Checkmate ! "  said  Benedict  Warren,  at  five  minutes 
before  eleven.  The  guest  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

Warren  rose  and  brought  a  chafing-dish  from  a  closet 
in  the  wall.  With  cheese,  beer,  and  red  pepper  he  con- 
cocted a  Welsh  rabbit.  Worthington  was  made  to  toast 
crackers  over  the  coals  in  the  fireplace.  On  one  corner  of 
the  table  Warren  placed  two  plates,  a  bottle,  and  two  tiny 
glasses ;  then  he  served  the  rabbit.  The  feast  was  ready. 

"  Well,"  said  Warren,  "  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

His  friend  did  not  answer.  The  host  wielded  his  fork 
in  silence  and  nibbled  a  cracker.  The  guest  studied  the 
coals. 

"  If  you've  done  anything  you're  ashamed  of  you  may 
as  well  out  with  it,"  Warren  ^resumed,  smiling.  "  It  prob- 
ably wouldn't  trouble  my  conscience  so  much  as  it  does 
yours.  Mine's  tough." 

Professor  Worthington  waited  and  considered.  Warren 
was  wondering  if  it  was  hard  work  that  kept  Alfred  look- 
ing so  young  and  fresh.  Presently  the  guest  lifted  his 
eyes  to  meet  those  of  his  friend. 

"  It's  the  boy,"  he  said. 

Warren's  jaw  dropped.  He  had  never  heard  that  com- 
plaint. His  eyes  retreated  farther  and  farther  into  their 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  107 

caverns  as  Worthington  set  forth  the  trouble  of  the  last 
four  days. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  he  asked,  in  finishing. 

"  Give  him  a  top  to  spin,"  said  Warren,  taking  up  his 
neglected  pipe.  "  It's  all  child's  play.  It  won't  last  more 
than  a  week." 

The  task  of  learning  of  Henry's  existence  when  the 
latter  was  a  baby  had  been  hard  for  Warren.  This  thing- 
in-long-dresses  that  had  come  to  divide  Worthington's  at- 
tention with  him  was  a  sore  trial.  To  Alfred's  wife,  after 
a  short  struggle,  he  had  become  reconciled,  but  this  pulpy 
creature  that  at  times  absorbed  the  whole  of  his  friend, 
warped  his  mind,  took  him  out  on.  new  roads  of  thinking, 
this  was  a  different  matter.  How  a  rational  creature  could 
waste  good  energy  over  anything  like  that,  as  Worthington 
had  done  when  Henry  had  had  the  croup,  was  a  puzzle. 
It  could  not  play  chess ;  it  could  not  take  walks ;  it  could 
not  talk  politics :  Benedict  Warren  had  been  unable  to 
see  its  fascinations. 

But  Henry's  existence  as  a  baby  had  at  last  been  stamped 
on  Warren's  mind  indelibly,  and  there  he  had  remained,  a 
baby.  Sometimes  the  child  grew  up  as  far  as  kilts,  never 
farther.  That  this  creature  should  be  now  a  source  of 
serious  discomfort  to  his  friend  was  incredible,  yet  he  saw 
looming  up  before  him  a  possibility  of  being  asked  for 
advice.  He  must  deploy,  while  collecting  his  forces. 

"Worthington,"  he  said,  smiling,  with  his  pipe  still  in 
his  mouth  —  it  was  his  great  feat  — "  Do  you  remember 
the  day  when  you  and  I  went  out  and  sat  on  the  hill  where 
Gordon's  is  now,  and  made  a  vow  never  to  marry  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Worthington. 

"  It  wasn't  a  month,"  continued  the  speaker,  immediately, 
"before  you  told  me  that  you  were  engaged." 

The  professor  smiled. 

"It  was  I  who  proposed  that  vow,  I  believe." 

"  So  much  the  worse,"  said  the  host. 

"  The  result  was  natural  enough,"  remarked  the  guest. 


io8  HENRY   WORTH1NGTON 

"That's  not  logic,"  observed  the  host. 

"  It's  life,"  said  Worthington.  "  I  presume  I  was  be- 
ginning to  be  alarmed  when  I  made  that  proposition,  and 
the  inevitable  happened." 

Warren  shook  his  head. 

This  memory  roused  old  trains  of  thought,  brought  back 
pictures  of  the  days  when  they  had  played  together  in  knicker- 
bockers, on  the  common ;  of  their  student  life,  when  they 
had  walked  side  by  side  in  cap  and  gown.  It  was  the 
friendship  of  a  lifetime  that  stretched  behind  them.  Now 
they  turned  the  old  corners  once  more,  walked  the  old 
paths,  sat  on  the  old  stiles. 

"  We  must  make  the  most  of  it,  Worthington,"  said 
Benedict  Warren,  at  last,  with  a  grave,  spasmodic  quiver  in 
his  chin.  There  was  a  solemnity  in  his  voice  that  startled 
his  friend.  Warren  had  never  said  anything  like  that 
before. 

u  It  can't  go  on  forever.  We've  got  a  few  years,  and 
then  you'll  be  under  one  knot  of  grass  in  the  cemetery  and 
I  under  another,  and  that's  the  end.  We  must  make  the 
most  of  the  days  that  are  left." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  that  is  the  end  ? "  demanded 
Alfred  Worthington. 

Benedict  Warren  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth. 

"  Common  sense,"  he  remarked  briefly. 

"  There's  the  unscientific  temper  again,"  protested  Alfred 
Worthington.  "  You  are  arrogant.  You  assume  know- 
ledge of  the  things  we  cannot  know." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  his  friend,  inquiringly. 

"I  don't  make  a  priori  judgments  about  the  world  of 
phenomena,"  said  the  scientist.  "  Why  should  I  about 
the  world  of  noumena  ?  " 

"  That's  a  word,"  observed  the  host,  with  a  smile,  "  that 
I've  been  trying  for  twenty  years  to  avoid  looking  up  in 
the  dictionary.  I  knew  you'd  drive  me  to  it  some  day. 
Say  on.  I'm  waiting  and  listening." 

But  Alfred  Worthino-ton  was  not  in  a  humorous  mood. 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  109 

The  remark  about  the  cemetery  had  made  him  think  of 
a  grave  already  there. 

"  Outside  the  realm  of  the  demonstrable,"  he  mur- 
mured, watching  the  leaping  flame  of  the  fire  over  the 
blackened  wood,  "  who  can  say  what  may  be  true  ?  Even 
our  hopes,  even  our  hopes." 

Through  all  their  conversation  Benedict  Warren  was 
nerving  himself  for  a  supreme  effort.  In  the  atrophy  of 
social  power  of  a  man  who  had  shirked  the  duties  of  neigh- 
bour and  citizen,  one  side,  and  one  only,  had  kept  vitality, 
that  which  was  turned  toward  his  friend.  "  A  practical 
agnostic  in  most  matters,"  as  he  called  himself,  "  hopelessly 
lazy,"  as  Worthington  translated  it,  he  would  have  hewn 
wood  and  drawn  water  for  Alfred.  Now  —  he  was  going 
to  give  Henry  a  piece  of  advice.  He  had  never  in  his  life 
given  advice  to  anybody,  but  a  friend  was  a  friend.  At  any 
cost  — 

He  went  out  on  the  doorstep  to  bid  farewell  to  his  guest. 
They  did  not  shake  hands.  They  had  not  done  that  for 
twenty  years.  The  host  stood,  a  silhouette  against  the 
light  in  the  doorway.  Professor  Worthington  called 
"  Good  night "  and  disappeared.  Then  Warren  went 
back  to  his  den,  woke  Ulysses,  stroked  the  dog's  head  as 
it  lay  in  his  lap,  and  thought. 

The  professor  went  home  in  the  clear  moonlight,  pass- 
ing under  the  shadows  of  the  trees  and  out  again.  Lan- 
caster Place  was  quiet  when  he  reached  it.  He  went 
briskly  up  the  walk  toward  his  own  door,  when  suddenly 
the  sight  of  the  hemlock  sharply  outlined  against  the  white 
of  the  house  arrested  him.  It  was  here  that  he  had  stood 
that  night  when  Henry  was  born.  Outline  and  shadow, 
the  smell  of  the  damp  earth,  the  quiet,  recreated  that  hour 
for  him. 

He  had  heard  his  child's  first  cry  on  that  summer  night, 
and  had  waited,  he  did  not  know  how  long,  until  they 
brought  the  boy  to  him.  He  had  lifted  his  son,  and  a 
sudden  sharp,  exquisite  pain  had  shot  through  him.  The 


no  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

nurse  had  taken  the  baby,  and  he  had  rushed  from  the 
house  to  stand  still  under  the  stars.  The  professor  bowed 
his  head  now  in  memory  of  that  hour. 

For  then,  as  his  hands  had  reached  out  to  touch  the 
rough  bark  of  that  hemlock,  and  he  had  felt  the  cool,  soft 
grass  under  his  feet,  a  sudden  sense  of  his  unity  with 
Nature's  life  had  come  to  him.  For  the  first  time  he  was 
at  home  in  the  universe.  He  belonged  to  earth,  and  a 
passionate  wish  to  stay  took  possession  of  him,  to  live  on, 
linked  with  all  life.  The  appeal  in  that  tiny  hand  reached 
down  into  the  roots  of  being.  The  child  was  his,  was  he. 
It  was  the  sob  in  his  throat,  the  blood  in  his  pulses,  the 
encompassing  air.  Looking  up  through  the  solemn  hem- 
lock branches,  he  had  begun  to  know  what  it  all  meant 
—  existence,  in  this  world  that  seemed  newly  created,  as 
if  for  his  new-born  child. 

Just  before  morning  had  broken,  on  that  same  night, 
Alfred  Worthington  had  come  out  again  to  stand  hopelessly 
leaning  against  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  porch.  Eleanor 
was  dead.  He  could  not  realize  what  they  had  meant 
when  they  had  said  that.  He  had  stood  there,  gazing 
stupidly  at  the  faint  flush  of  red  in  the  east.  There  had 
been  a  queer,  jerky  feeling  about  his  heart.  He  had  not 
been  sorry  when,  later  that  day,  the  doctor  had  told  him 
of  diseased  heart-action,  and  had  said  that  life  might  end 
suddenly  for  him. 

Pity  for  that  far-off  hour  dimmed  now  the  professor's 
eyes.  He  sat  down  on  the  doorstep  and  let  the  slow  pro- 
cession of  old  days  file  past  him.  The  moonlight  touched 
into  distinctness  the  lines  of  his  forehead  and  mouth.  It 
was  a  good  face,  strong  and  gentle,  the  face  of  a  man 
who  had  loved  and  suffered,  and  was  therefore  fit  to  begin 
to  be  a  scholar. 

At  first  he  had  not  wanted  to  see  the  baby.  When,  the 
day  after  its  mother's  funeral,  it  had  been  brought  to  him, 
he  had  lifted  it,  afraid  of  the  feeling  of  tenderness  that  had 
rushed  over  him.  Had  he  taken  sorrow  again  to  his  heart 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON-  in 

with  the  child  ?  After  that,  he  had  been  unwilling  to  have 
his  son  out  of  his  sight.  The  cradle  had  stood  in  the 
library  during  the  hours  when  he  was  at  home.  He  had 
missed  with  an  agony  of  longing  that  little  brown  head 
when  it  was  not  near.  There  his  life  centred,  the  trust  of 
it,  the  hope  of  it.  It  was  like  a  new  pulse  beating  outside 
him. 

Gradually  an  insistent  thought  had  taken  possession  of 
him.  He  began  to  understand  the  look  that  his  wife's 
eyes  used  to  wear.  Had  she  felt  at  all  like  this  about  him  ? 
Those  eyes  had  followed  him  when  he  had  gone  away,  had 
watched  his  coming  back.  He  had  meant  all  this  to  her, 
all  that  the  child  was  coming  to  mean  to  him,  but  he  had 
not  known.  He  had  sinned  against  her,  unaware  that  love 
like  this  could  exist.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he  was  so 
strong  that  nothing  had  roused  him  fully  until  this  appeal 
of  utter  helplessness  had  come.  So  he  had  crept  slowly 
into  an  understanding  of  the  past,  into  pity  for  Eleanor, 
for  himself.  He  walked  backward  in  his  journey  through 
the  world.  While  the  grass  was  growing  green  over  his 
wife's  grave,  Professor  Worthington  began  his  married  life 
alone. 

For  a  queer,  imaginative  existence  was  carried  on  in 
this  scientific  mind.  Not  to  thought  only,  almost  to  sense, 
Eleanor  was  still  there.  He  had  never  spoken  of  it,  even 
to  Henry,  but  he  had  felt  at  times  the  lingering  touch  of 
her  fingers  on  his  hair.  They  had  called  him  sceptic  in 
the  years  before.  They  said  now  that  his  wife's  death  had 
changed  him.  It  was  not  that.  He  had  learned  eternity 
elsewhere.  It  was  the  sight  of  his  child's  tiny  face  that 
had  given  him  a  sense  of  everlastingness  in  things,  and  had 
made  him  know  love,  creative,  undying  love  that  knows 
no  meaning  in  the  words  "  death  "  and  "  change." 

The  love  wherewith  his  wife  had  followed  him  had  gone 
into  the  professor's  passion  for  the  little  lad.  It  had  gath- 
ered into  itself  all  his  old  aspiration.  It  had  turned  the 
breath  on  his  lips  into  prayer.  There  was  in  it  no  selfish- 


H2  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

ness,  no  demand.  As  he  stroked  the  baby's  cheek  clum- 
sily, a  sense  of  encompassing  greatness  would  sweep  over 
him,  and  the  word  "  eternal "  kept  ringing  in  his  ears. 

"  Lo  !  what  am  I  to  love,  the  Lord  of  all  ? 
One  murmuring  shell  he  gathers  from  the  sand, 
One  little  heart-flame  sheltered  in  his  hand. 
Yet  through  thine  eyes  he  grants  me  clearest  call, 
And  veriest  touch  of  hours  primordial 
That  any  hour-girt  life  may  understand." 

Alfred  Worthington  heard  the  town-clock  strike  two. 
By  that  time  he  had  reached  in  his  review  of  life  Henry's 
declaration  of  independence.  At  twelve,  the  child,  deciding 
that  he  needed  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  had  insisted  on  going 
alone  to  order  them  of  his  father's  tailor.  He  had  made  a 
wise  selection,  and  his  father  had  praised  him.  But  the 
iron  had  entered  the  professor's  soul.  Long  before  this  he 
had  been  seen  looking  wistfully  from  his  own  tall  boy 
down  the  street  toward  little  lads  in  kilts.  The  fading 
helplessness  had  been  hard  to  bear.  In  those  early  days  it 
had  never  occurred  to  him  that  Henry  would  grow  up  and 
cease  to  need  the  strength  of  his  father's  arm.  That  train- 
ing of  his  son  toward  independence  in  act  and  in  convic- 
tion had  been  the  hardest  struggle  in  the  father's  life. 

The  professor  wakened  with  a  start  to  a  consciousness 
of  their  present  dispute.  The  idea  struck  him,  as  did 
everything  connected  with  Henry,  with  paralyzing  force. 
Something  in  the  very  springs  of  being  was  touched  when 
the  boy  was  in  question.  Nothing  until  now  had  broken 
their  perfect  understanding.  The  father  in  thinking  it 
over  wondered  at  the  peace  of  all  those  years.  Nothing 
had  had  to  be  explained.  Now,  it  was  so  little  a  thing 
that  had  disturbed  them,  little,  but  important.  Ripples 
are  always  out  of  proportion  to  the  size  of  the  stone ! 
The  father  would  have  found  it  easy  to  forgive  his  son  a 
sin.  It  was  harder  to  forgive  him  an  ideal  which  he  did 
not  share. 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  113 

"Yet  it  is  a  question  of  conscience,"  said  Alfred 
Worthington,  to  himself.  "  As  such,  it  must  be  faced. 
I  wish  it  had  been  any  other  question  under  the  sun." 

The  boy  had  struck  his  father's  weakest  spot.  Dearest 
to  the  professor's  heart,  after  wife,  child,  and  friend,  were 
his  city,  his  university.  That  any  one  should  criticise  either 
seemed  incredible.  Here,  here  in  the  spot  where  grand- 
father and  great-grandfather  had  lived  out  their  honoured 
and  respected  lives,  his  son  was  starting  out  in  a  course 
that  not  only  betrayed  bad  taste,  but  would  probably  end  in 
family  disgrace.  For  the  first  time  in  all  these  years  the 
father  was  thinking  of  himself  first. 

He  heard  Henry's  footsteps  inside.  The  boy  was 
wandering  uneasily  about  the  house,  wondering  when  his 
father  was  coming  back.  That  step,  heard  in  the  distance 
even,  always  gave  Alfred  Worthington  a  feeling  of  peace. 
To-night,  as  it  died  away,  it  brought  a  sharp  foreboding, 
a  sense  of  the  inevitable  separation  that  must  come  some 
day.  For  him  much  of  the  journey  was  done,  but  the 
boy's  path  lay  ahead.  This  old  feeling  of  paralysis  that 
had  come  to  him  first  on  that  night  of  sorrow  always 
made  him  aware,  in  the  minutes  of  great  emotion  when  it 
came  back,  that  he  was  in  the  side  of  life  leading  down  hill 
to  quiet.  Life  was  fulfilled  for  him  in  his  son,  but  he  was 
jealous  of  the  years  that  Henry  would  live  after  he  was 
dead.  He  would  gladly  have  forfeited  his  experience  if  he 
could  only  have  gone  back  to  stay  with  his  child,  protect 
him.  Dim  fears  of  the  struggles  that  the  future  held  for 
the  boy  clouded  his  eyes.  He  wondered  if  God  feels  that 
inability  to  aid,  that  anguish  of  helplessness  which  is  the 
supreme  test  of  fatherhood,  its  Calvary. 

The  door  opened  suddenly.  Henry  came  out  in  hat 
and  overcoat.  He  jumped  in  surprise  at  seeing  his  father. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  sitting  out  here  at  this 
time  of  night  for?"  demanded  the  son,  with  sternness. 
"  You  will  have  rheumatism  or  pneumonia.  I  was  just 
starting  out  to  look  you  up.  Come  in,  sir,  and  go  to  bed." 


CHAPTER   X 

ON'T  you  love  pistache  ? "  asked  the 
girl  at  her  side. 

Annice    turned,    bewildered.       She 
had  no  time  for  dissimulation. 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  I  am 
afraid  I  don't.  It  has  an  unpleasant 
colour.  But  I  do  like  meringue,"  she 
hastened  to  add,  seeing  the  disappointed  look  in  her  ques- 
tioner's face.  Her  smile  won  forgiveness  for  her.  She 
had  found  the  way  with  surprising  quickness  to  the  hearts 
of  these  girls.  They  cared  for  her  beauty,  for  her  sweet- 
ness of  manner,  for  the  sympathy  in  the  eyes  whose 
seriousness  was  enlivened  by  gleams  of  fun.  They  felt 
her  inexperience  and  were  good  to  her. 

"You  could  be  real  stylish  if  you  knew  how  to  dress, 
Annice,"  one  of  them  had  said  to  her  one  day.  "  You'd 
better  get  a  new  waist.  Nobody  wears  polka  dots  now." 
Annice  had  ventured  for  the  first  time  into  the  room 
where  the  girls  ate  their  luncheons.  Some  of  them  patron- 
ized the  restaurant  on  the  fourth  floor.  The  majority  of 
them  economized  by  bringing  the  noonday  meal  —  a  bit 
of  bread,  a  doughnut,  perhaps  an  apple  and  a  cracker. 
The  only  place  provided  for  the  repast  was  this  den  in  the 
basement.  It  was  windowless  and  unventilated.  Two 
flickering  gas  flames  exhausted  still  further  the  already 

114 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  115 

exhausted  air.  Foul  odours  crept  in  through  the  door. 
Sometimes  rats  crawled  stealthily  among  the  dry-goods 
boxes  that  served  for  seats.  The  sight  of  the  dirt  and  the 
touch  of  the  vile  air  made  Annice  faint,  and  everything 
swam  before  her  —  the  group  of  chattering  girls  with  the 
background  of  cobweb  drapery  in  the  flickering  light  and 
shadow.  Then  she  came  to  her  senses.  The  Jewess  had 
grasped  her  arm  and  was  leading  her  to  a  seat  on  a  box. 

"  You'll  get  used  to  it,  bimeby,"  said  the  girl.  "  Got 
your  lunch  ?  Nothing  ?  Take  half  of  mine." 

She  thrust  into  Annice's  hand  one  of  the  two  hard  rolls 
that  she  had  been  holding  in  rather  grimy  fingers. 

"  Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Annice.  "  Here,  I  can- 
not take  it  all."  She  broke  the  roll  into  two  bits  and 
gave  back  one.  Then  with  a  dangerous  feeling  of  physi- 
cal misgiving  in  her  throat  she  tried  to  nibble  the  other. 
She  could  not  hurt  her  benefactor's  feelings.  Fortunately 
the  Jewess  turned  away,  and  Annice  dropped  the  roll  in 
crumbs  on  the  floor,  with  a  feeling  of  gratefulness  for  the  rats. 

"  She  don't  like  pistache,"  the  girl  who  had  first  spoken 
to  Annice  was  saying.  u  I  think  it's  just  lovely." 

"  What  I  like,"  the  listener  responded,  "  is  chocolate, 
with  whipped  cream." 

Annice  leaned  her  head  against  the  dusty  wall  and 
watched  these  girls.  Their  faces  looked  paler  than  ever 
in  this  unreal  light.  Their  brilliant  magenta  and  purple 
bows  of  ribbon  stood  out  with  ghastly  distinctness.  They 
were  talking  about  their  food,  the  fashions,  their  friends  of 
the  other  sex,  their  various  small  importances.  It  was 
always  like  that.  The  deepest  pathos  in  this  life  of  hard 
work  was  the  apparent  lack  of  sense  of  anything  beyond 
the  present  moment.  Why  should  there  be  ?  the  pro- 
prietor's daughter  asked  herself  sadly.  They  lived  in  a 
land  where  the  golden  calf  was  worshipped,  and  their 
thoughts  of  beauty  and  excellence  were  dominated  by  the 
thoughts  of  their  superiors,  those  higher  in  the  favour  of 
the  golden  calf. 


Annice  closed  her  hands  tightly  together.  She  did  that 
often  in  those  days  to  keep  her  self-control.  She  felt  the 
few  hard  crumbs  of  the  roll  that  her  Jewish  neighbour  had 
given  her  still  clinging  to  her  fingers,  and  she  smiled. 
That  saved  it  all  from  vulgarity,  that  quick,  instantaneous, 
elemental  kindness  that  she  met  everywhere.  No  service 
was  too  hard  for  these  tired  girls  to  perform  for  one 
another.  She  had  seen  one  of  them  doing  another's  work 
all  day,  as  well  as  her  own,  that  the  girl  thus  relieved  might 
have  time  to  go  to  her  mother's  funeral.  She  knew  of 
another  who,  twice  that  week,  had  watched  all  night  with 
a  sick  neighbour,  and  had  worked  all  day  afterward.  That 
anaemic  girl  who  liked  chocolate  with  whipped  cream,  and 
who  was  now  eating  a  crust  of  bread  with  a  pickle,  was 
supporting  a  crippled  father  and  an  invalid  sister  with 
heroism  of  which  she  was  utterly  unconscious.  After  all, 
these  visions  of  dainty  food  and  of  beautiful  clothes  that 
came  to  them  over  their  pitiful  luncheons  showed  a  kind 
of  idealism  better  than  sheer  stolidity. 

She  rose  and  stole  noiselessly  away.  The  broken  swing- 
ing door  closed  softly  behind  her.  Through  the  dark  and 
slimy  passageway  leading  to  the  hardware  department  she 
groped  with  hands  that  shrank  back  from  the  objects  she 
sought  for  guidance.  She  was  thinking  of  the  defective 
taste,  the  defective  moral  standards  of  some  of  those  girls 
in  the  luncheon-room,  but  more  of  their  quick  sympathy 
and  generous  impulses. 

"  I've  learned  something  anyway,"  said  Annice  Gordon. 
"  Goodness  like  that  is  something  to  believe  in." 

The  days  of  hard  work  that  had  passed  so  swiftly  had 
brought  Annice  no  new  insight  into  the  right  and  the 
wrong  of  things.  She  had  prayed  for  light.  She  got  only 
confusion.  A  clear  understanding  of  the  extent  of  her 
father's  wrong-doing  would  lead  her,  she  had  thought,  to 
her  duty.  Now  her  father's  sin  seemed  inextricably 
mixed  up  with  the  sin  of  all  the  world.  In  the  long  list 
of  wrong-doers  who  were  responsible  for  the  suffering  of 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  117 

those  lowest  in  the  scale,  there  was  no  one  to  whom  she 
could  point  saying,  "You  are  the  sinner."  Owner, 
superintendent,  contractor,  and  the  people  who  came  to 
buy,  seemed  leagued  together,  all  guilty,  and  all  work- 
ing in  obedience  to  some  innate  wrong  in  the  laws  of 
trade. 

Meanwhile,  the  hard  life  about  her  was  leading  her 
from  her  own  spiritual  problem  into  new  lines  of  thought 
concerning  social  right  and  wrong.  She  had  not  found 
just  the  sensational  misery  that  she  had  pictured  from  her 
cousin  Alec's  reports.  It  was  a  harder  kind,  with  a 
singular  lack  of  climax  in  it  —  the  long,  slow,  monotonous 
pathos  of  lives  that  had  no  great  hope  in  them,  and  no 
consciousness  of  lack.  Wrinkles,  fading  eyes,  a  gradual 
letting  go,  through  physical  atrophy,  of  a  hold  on  the 
world  of  warmth  and  light  and  colour  —  this  was  the  heri- 
tage of  hard-worked  women  everywhere,  the  peculiar,  swift 
reward  of  unremitting  toil.  The  realization  of  all  that 
grinding  poverty  means  brought  into  Annice's  face  a  look 
that  deepened  the  old  wistful  beauty  of  expression. 

There  was  one  more  brief  interview  with  the  young 
economist.  His  manner  was  very  different  on  this  occa- 
sion. He  was  master  of  the  situation.  He  had  come  to 
make  a  single  inquiry  about  the  disposition  of  fines.  Were 
they  turned  into  a  fund  for  the  benefit  of  the  employees  ? 
he  asked.  And  were  they  very  great  ? 

"  There  is  no  fund,"  Annice  answered,  "  and  the  fines 
are  rather  severe.  Last  week  that  child,"  she  pointed  to  a 
red-haired  cash-girl  who  was  galloping  past  in  answer  to 
a  sharp  call  from  behind  a  counter,  "  was  fined  a  dollar. 
She  earns  a  dollar  and  a  quarter  a  week." 

A  scowl  was  her  only  reply.  The  young  man  turned 
to  go.  A  feeling  of  helplessness  and  of  disappointment 
surged  through  the  girl.  This  man,  who  knew,  who  could 
thelp —  why  should  he  desert  her? 

"  Tell  me,  whose  fault  is  it  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Couldn't 
anybody  manage  a  shop  of  this  kind  and  be  honest  ? " 


n8  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

It  was  a  peculiar  question.  The  stranger  gave  her  a 
surprised  glance  from  his  gray  eyes. 

u A  man  could"  he  answered,  " but  this  man  doesn't. 
Perhaps  he  obeys  the  letter  of  the  law,  but  —  " 

"  But  he  isn't  quite  responsible  for  it  all,"  pleaded  the 
girl. 

"  He  is  absolutely  responsible  for  conditions  under  this 
roof,"  said  the  young  man,  "  and  those  conditions  are  as 
bad  in  every  respect  as  they  could  possibly  be :  low  wages, 
extra  work  without  extra  pay,  unsanitary  arrangements, 
atrocious  fines.  Moreover,  he  is  responsible,  though  I 
doubt  if  any  manager  would  admit  it,  for  the  way  in  which 
goods  sold  here  are  produced.  Did  you  try,  as  I  suggested, 
to  trace  any  of  those  ready-made  garments  ?  " 

He  was  puzzled  by  this  girl.  He  was  also  eager  to  go, 
though  more  eager  to  stay.  People  would  misinterpret  the 
interview,  he  reflected,  and  in  that  he  was  right.  The 
saleswomen  near  were  looking  on  in  curiosity. 

"  I  tried,"  the  girl  was  saying.  "  I  asked  where  some 
of  those  shirt-waists  were  made.  The  clerk  said :  4 1  don't 
know  and  I  don't  care.  They  are  a  bargain.'  I  asked  the 
buyer  for  the  department.  He  said  that  they  were  pur- 
chased by  a  contractor,  and  he  knew  nothing  about  where 
they  were  made." 

"  I  do,"  said  Henry  Worthington,  laconically.  "  I  found 
goods  being  made  for  Smith's  in  two  of  the  worst  sweaters' 
dens  in  the  city,  filthy,  crowded,  unspeakable.  I  found  sev- 
eral families  in  tenement-houses  doing  things  for  Smith's." 

"  Oh,  don't,"  said  the  girl.  Henry  was  ashamed.  There 
were  shining  tears  in  her  eyes.  Her  life  was  hard  enough 
without  his  making  it  harder.  He  would  think  of  some- 
thing cheerful. 

"The  only  way  to  better  the  thing,"  he  said  hastily, 
"  is  to  educate  the  public  not  to  buy  at  these  places.  It 
would  be  impossible  to  educate  directly  the  owners  of  con- 
cerns like  this.  The  sole  avenue  of  appeal  to  them  is 
through  their  pockets,  for  they  are  unscrupulous  and 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  119 

greedy.  The  profits  here  must  be  enormous,  too  great 
for  any  honest  business.  I've  talked  with  one  of  the  buyers 
and  with  some  of  the  drummers  for  the  establishment.  In 
some  departments  it's  a  clear  fifty-per-cent  gain.  Proprie- 
tors will  not  give  up  money  like  that  for  nothing.  But  if 
they  find  that  people  won't  buy  their  unrighteous  goods 
they  will  better  the  conditions  under  which  those  goods 
are  made.  Their  consciences  can  be  dictated  to  them  by 
their  patrons." 

He  stopped.  Consolation  was  a  failure.  A  scarlet  wave 
of  colour  rippled  over  the  girl's  face,  and  died  away  in 
absolute  pallor,  except  for  the  touch  of  pink  at  the  ears. 
He  hastily  took  his  leave.  The  girl  gazed  after  him  as  if 
all  hope  went  too.  Then  she  picked  up  a  card  that  had 
fallen  from  his  memorandum  book.  A  list  of  wages  pen- 
cilled on  the  back  caught  her  eye. 

"Dresses,  trimmed,  made  for  $1.20  per  doz. 

"Silk  waists,  980  a  doz. 

"  Wrappers,  calico,  4gc.  a  doz. 

"  Coats  finished,  36c.  a  doz. 

"  Aprons  made,  22c.  a  doz. 

"  Coats  made,  32c.  each." 

"  Oh,"  moaned  the  daughter  of  the  proprietor  of  Smith's. 
"  It  can't  be  !  " 

She  stood  behind  the  counter,  her  back  half  turned 
toward  the  customers,  her  head  leaning  against  a  huge  wax 
doll  on  the  shelf.  She  was  summing  up  the  situation. 
This  swift,  impersonal  verdict  of  the  young  thinker  who 
had  taken  the  trouble  to  investigate  facts  with  patience, 
and  whose  standard  of  judgment  differed  from  the  mere 
trade  standard  of  greed,  was  final.  And  it  was  very 
simple.  Her  father  was  not  responsible  because  work 
was  hard.  It  was  always  that.  He  was  responsible  for 
the  criminal  element  in  the  conditions  under  which  work 
was  done  for  him,  for  negligence,  exposure,  oppression 


iio  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

directly  hostile  to  life.  Suddenly  she  became  conscious 
that  Mary  Burns  was  whispering  in  her  ear. 

"  If  I  was  you  I  wouldn't  let  that  young  man  come 
again,"  she  said.  "  It  don't  look  well." 

Annice  turned,  indignant,  to  explain,  but  Mary  was 
already  back  at  her  counter,  holding  a  slimsy  shirt  waist  up 
before  an  emaciated  countrywoman,  and  saying :  — 

"  Worth  twice  the  money  you'd  pay  for  it,  madam,  and 
just  in  the  latest  style." 

The  utter  strain  of  work  and  thought  was  too  much  for 
Annice.  Laughter  and  tears  together  broke  down  her  self- 
control.  Mary  was  as  good  a  chaperone  as  Madame  Von 
Hoist.  She,  with  her  icy  dignity  and  reserve,  had  been 
reproved  by  a  shop-girl !  Then  her  smiles  faded,  and  she 
dried  her  eyes.  She  was  conscious  that  glances  of  curiosity 
were  coming  toward  her  from  all  sides.  The  floor-walker 
spoke  sharply  to  her.  A  purchaser  had  been  neglected  and 
had  gone  away.  He  made  a  memorandum  in  his  note- 
book to  the  effect  that  Anna  Whitney  had  been  seen 
receiving  notes  from  a  customer. 

"  Are  you  mad  at  me  ?  "  asked  Mary  Burns,  as  they  left 
the  shop  together,  holding  in  their  hands  the  envelopes 
containing  their  week's  wages. 

"Mad?"  said  Annice,  with  her  loveliest  smile.  "No, 
only  you  don't  understand." 

Mary  was  looking  at  her  companion's  face,  with  its 
beauty  of  cut  and  colouring,  its  subtle  beauty  of  expression, 
and  she  thought  she  did. 

"I  don't  know  that  man  at  all,"  began  Annice. 

"  I  thought  not,"  said  Mary  Burns,  gravely,  "  but  people 
don't  blush  for  nothing." 

o 

Annice  bit  her  lips.  Her  dignity  had  grown  used  to 
shocks  in  the  last  few  days. 

"No,"  she  answered  sadly,  "people  don't  blush  for 
nothing,  but  that  young  man  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
He's  been  at  the  shop  only  once." 

"  Twice  or  three  times,"  said  Mary  Burns,  stoutly.     "  He 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  121 

was  there  day  before  yesterday.  You  didn't  see  him,  but 
he  saw  you." 

"  But  he  didn't  come  to  see  me,"  answered  Annice,  with 
a  touch  of  impatience.  u  He  had  some  questions  to  ask 
about  the  management  of  the  place.  He's  a  sociologist." 

"  A  what  ?  "  asked  Mary.  "  You'd  better  look  out  for 
him  !  " 

u  He's  trying  to  find  out  the  things  that  are  wrong 
in  that  place,  and  to  set  them  right,"  said  Annice,  with 
indignation.  "  It  isn't  fit  to  work  in,  you  know  that. 
It  isn't  clean  and  the  wages  aren't  half  enough  to  live 
on." 

"  Oh,  take  care,  take  care !  "  cried  Mary  Burns.  She 
put  out  her  hand  to  shield  Annice  from  a  bicycle  that 
threatened  her  life  at  a  crossing.  Then  she  clutched  her 
skirt  and  drew  her  out  of  the  way  of  a  passing  cab.  She 
had  a  constant  feeling  of  responsibility  in  regard  to  the 
protection  of  this  new  girl. 

"  I'm  so  afraid  something  will  run  over  your  feet,"  she 
said  in  answer  to  the  amused  inquiry  in  her  companion's 
eyes.  "  It  kind  of  seems  as  if  you  had  always  had  some- 
body to  take  care  of  you." 

"  I  haven't,"  answered  Annice,  "  since  I  was  a  little 
girl." 

They  were  pushing  their  way  through  the  crowd  when 
Annice  felt  her  arm  grasped  in  a  clutch  that  hurt.  Mary 
Burns's  eyes  were  shining  with  the  splendour  of  an  inspira- 
tion. "  Will  you  come  home  to  supper  with  me  ?  I'd  rather 
have  you  come  when  Jennie's  there.  It's  Saturday  night, 
and  they  keep  open  till  nine  at  Schlesinger's.  But  maybe 
we  ain't  got  knives  and  forks  enough  for  three,  and  I 
guess  you'd  better  come  now.  We  can  go  and  fetch 
Jennie  at  nine.  She  can't  have  her  supper  till  then." 

Annice  accepted  the  invitation  graciously,  then  followed 
her  hostess  into  a  tiny  baker's  shop.  Pies  marked  ten  cents, 
cakes  marked  twelve  cents,  cookies  marked  six  cents  a  dozen 
were  displayed  in  the  glass  cases.  The  young  man  who 


i22  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

served  as  clerk  waited  expectantly  as  the  newcomers  ex- 
amined his  wares. 

"  Which  would  you  rather  have  ? "  asked  Mary,  with 
gravity.  "  Pie,  or  spice  cakes  ?  " 

Annice  saw  that  the  cakes  were  but  two  cents  apiece. 
The  pie  was  ten. 

"  I'd  much  rather  have  spice  cakes,"  she  said  earnestly. 
Mary  smiled. 

"Jennie  likes  'em  better,  too,"  she  said.  "It's  the 
chocolate  frosting." 

Opening  the  envelope  containing  her  wages,  Mary  Burns 
gave  a  little  cry  of  delight.  In  addition  to  the  usual  coins, 
an  extra  fifty-cent  piece  fell  out.  Round  it  was  wrapped  a 
paper  saying,  "  Wages  raised  to  three  dollars  and  a  half  on 
account  of  the  large  number  of  sales  made  this  week."  She 
started  to  show  it  to  Annice,  but  decided  not  to.  Annice 
was  touching  her  envelope  with  one  slender  finger,  and 
looking  down  at  it  with  unfathomable  grief  in  her  eyes. 

"  Her  wages  haven't  been  raised,"  said  Mary  to  herself. 
"  They  must  be  awful  low ;  I  s'pose  she's  a  two-dollar  girl 
now." 

It  wrung  Annice's  heart  to  see  the  way  in  which  Mary 
Burns  counted  the  pennies  of  change  as  she  paid  for  her 
cakes  and  her  loaf  of  bread.  One,  two,  three  —  her  whole 
soul  was  in  the  operation.  For  generations  the  family  had 
counted  pence  with  that  painful  care.  No,  instead  of  giv- 
ing her  too  few  the  man  had  given  her  too  many  coins. 
She  ran  back  and  put  a  penny  down  on  the  counter. 

"You  cheated  yourself,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone  to 
the  young  man  in  the  bakery.  She  did  not  want  the  pro- 
prietor to  hear.  "  Now  tell  me  what  you're  going  to  do 
about  wages,"  she  demanded. 

"There  ought  to  be,"  said  Annice,  emphatically,  "a 
revolution.  I  never  thought  of  things  before.  People 
who  work  as  hard  as  all  these  people  do  —  clerks  and 
seamstresses,  ought  to  have  large  enough  wages  to  keep 
them  alive." 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  123 

"  You'll  just  lose  your  place  if  you  talk  like  that,"  said 
Mary  Burns.  "  But  keep  still  and  keep  what  you've  got 
till  you  put  your  finger  on  something  better.  (She  must 
have  awful  poor  pay,  or  she  wouldn't  feel  like  that,")  said 
Mary  to  herself.  ("  I'm  glad  I  didn't  speak  about  the  rise.") 

"  I  don't  care  so  much  about  the  others,"  said  Mary, 
passionately,  "but  there's  Jennie  with  her  weak  back, 
cooped  up  in  that  hot  basement-room,  some  nights  till  nine 
o'clock  at  night.  She's  in  the  hardware  department.  The 
place  is  just  over  there.  I  tell  you  Smith's  is  a  palace  by 
the  side  of  it.  You  see,"  and  the  girl's  eyes  were  troubled, 
"  she  couldn't  get  a  very  good  place.  She  is  older.  She 
ain't  very  strong,  and  she  ain't  what  they  call  pretty." 

That  room  was  just  like  Mary  Burns,  Annice  thought, 
after  the  horror  of  climbing  the  dark  stairs  was  over. 
There  was  a  primitive  cleanliness  and  simplicity  about  it. 
The  patchwork  quilt  on  the  bed,  the  sunbonnet  on  the 
wall  —  it  was  virginal,  old-fashioned,  sweet.  Touches  of  the 
grotesque  added  to  the  suggestion  of  up-country  life.  There 
was  a  wreath  of  hair  flowers  in  a  frame  on  the  wall.  A 
china  image,  indistinct  enough  in  outline  to  leave  the  spec- 
tator uncertain  as  to  whether  it  was  a  lamb  or  a  lion,  deco- 
rated the  top  shelf  of  a  "  what-not "  in  the  corner.  Blue 
china  covered  the  lower  shelves  of  this  piece  of  furniture. 

"  We  brought  what  things  we  could,"  said  the  hostess, 
as  she  caught  her  guest's  eyes  surveying  the  room.  "  We 
had  to  pay  fifty  cents  for  gettin'  the  what-not  and  the  chiny 
here,  but  they  was  the  only  things  left  from  the  auction, 
and  we  thought  we  couldn't  spare  them.  Now  you  take 
off  your  hat  and  set  down  by  the  window  and  watch  the 
nuns,  while  I  get  supper." 

She  refused  with  scorn  all  offers  of  help.  Annice  obedi- 
ently seated  herself  by  the  window,  and  looking  down,  gave 
a  little  cry  of  delight.  A  tall  building,  with  a  golden  cross 
above  it,  rose  among  the  dirty  tenement  houses  like  a  lily 
from  the  mire.  Walking  two  by  two  among  the  apple 
trees  in  the  great  walled  garden  behind  it,  went  nuns,  "  in 


i24  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

black  clothes  and  in  white,"  singing.  They  were  going  to 
hold  vesper  service  at  a  tiny  shrine  among  the  trees.  The 
gentle  wind  made  their  tapers  flicker  into  longer  flame.  Ivy 
climbed  the  red  brick  walls  of  the  building,  broken,  where, 
in  a  high  niche,  a  white  Christ  kept  watch  over  the  quiet 
of  the  green  garden,  the  tumult  of  the  squalid  streets.  The 
beauty  of  the  picture  made  the  girl's  eyes  dim. 

"  They're  lots  of  company  for  me,"  said  Mary  Burns, 
joining  her  guest  at  the  window,  with  a  knife  in  her  hand, 
the  loaf  of  bread  in  the  other.  "  Maybe  it  ain't  right. 
I  was  raised  a  Presbyterian,  but  I  do  like  to  hear  them 
sing  at  their  prayers.  Sometimes  they  come  out  and  hang 
up  clothes  and  beat  rugs.  It's  a  school.  You  see  the 
children  playing  out  there  and  the  sisters  taking  care  of 
'em.  I've  seen  them  out  there  in  the  spring  with  long 
torches  burning  apple-tree  worms.  I  don't  know  what  we 
could  have  done  here  if  we  hadn't  had  those  nuns  to 
watch." 

The  little  supper-table  with  its  clean  cloth,  its  cracked 
blue  china,  its  bread  and  butter,  cakes,  dried  beef,  touched 
something  very  far  down  in  Annice's  heart.  It  roused 
memories  of  those  old  days  of  poverty,  for  she  had  dried 
cups  just  like  these  years  ago  for  her  mother.  The  home- 
liness of  it  all,  with  the  suggestion  of  comfort,  meant  some- 
thing real,  something  to  flee  to  in  time  of  need.  A  sense 
of  caring  about  it,  a  feeling  of  identity  with  the  plain, 
affectionate  life  that  had  been  carried  on  over  these  cups 
and  saucers,  brought  a  look  of  content  to  her  face.  The 
hostess  eyed  her  with  satisfaction.  She  had  never  seen 
the  new  girl  look  so  happy.  Annice  nibbled  daintily  her 
slice  of  bread.  She  could  not  bear  to  eat  it.  What  would 
the  sisters  have  for  breakfast  ?  If  her  aunt  and  Madame 
Von  Hoist  could  only  see  this  table  ! 

It  grew  late.  The  sound  of  singing  from  the  nun's 
garden  died  away.  Mary  did  not  light  the  candle.  The 
guest  had  considerately  preferred  twilight.  They  sat  in 
growing  shadow,  with  the  soft,  sweet  air  of  the  clear 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  125 

autumn  evening  stealing  in  through  the  window.  Mary 
was  telling  the  story  of  her  childhood,  of  their  departure 
from  home,  of  their  struggles  in  the  city,  and  scene  after 
scene  of  the  cruel  little  drama  passed  vividly  before  the 
eyes  of  Annice. 

"  You  see,"  said  Mary,  u  we  couldn't  pay  the  interest 
on  the  mortgage,  and  it  was  foreclosed.  We  tried  every- 
thing. Father  worked  out  by  the  day,  besides  doing  his 
own  work.  Mother  and  Jennie  took  in  sewing  from  the 
city,  and  I  used  to  sew  on  buttons  and  rip  out  bastings. 
After  the  sale,  father  took  an  awful  cold  one  day  digging 
ditches  for  the  farmer  in  the  next  place.  He  was  to  stay 
in  the  house  and  work  it  on  shares,  but  father  got  pneu- 
monia and  died.  A  week  from  the  day  we  buried  him, 
mother  died  of  the  same  thing.  The  neighbours  paid  for 
the  funerals."  Her  voice  was  broken  by  a  fierce  little  sob. 
"  We've  got  to  pay  that  money  back  yet,  if  it  kills  us. 
Then  there  wasn't  anything  to  do.  We  couldn't  work 
the  place,  so  we  had  an  auction  and  sold  off  all  the  stuff. 
It  was  in  winter.  They  all  came  into  the  kitchen  and  the 
auctioneer  stood  on  the  sofa.  I  remember  everything.  I 
was  ten  years  old.  They  sold  our  old  blue  cradle  for 
fifty  cents.  They  sold  father's  hair  trunk,  and  mother's 
Household  Book  of  Poetry,  and  the  old  footstool  mother 
had  used  ever  since  she  was  married,  and  father's  bread- 
and-milk  bowl.  Jennie  wouldn't  keep  a  thing.  A  neigh- 
bour bid  in  the  what-not  and  the  cups,  and  we  kept  them, 
but  everything  else  went  to  pay  our  debts.  They  took  us 
off  to  the  depot  in  the  slush  one  day.  We  brought  just 
that  leather  trunk,  and  that's  the  last  we  ever  saw  of  the 
place.  None  of  it  need  have  happened,"  said  the  girl, 
with  a  sudden  burst  of  passion,  "  if  my  mother's  cousin 
hadn't  cheated  her  out  of  her  inheritance." 

Annice  saw  it  all :  the  scattering  of  those  pieces  of 
furniture,  dear  because  of  the  long  life  lived  with  them; 
the  line  of  wagons  moving  toward  the  old  graveyard  at 
those  winter  funerals ;  the  exile  of  the  two  sisters ;  Jen- 


126  HENRY   WORTH INGTON 

nie's  struggles  to  win  bread  for  both  ;  and,  through  those 
years  of  tenement-house  life,  the  process  of  slow  defeat  for 
those  who  are  losers  in  the  game.  She  realized  now  some- 
thing of  the  slow  logic  of  poverty.  The  inevitable  spend- 
ing of  dollar  after  dollar,  the  lack  of  reserve-fund  for 
emergencies,  the  constant  striving  to  make  one  penny  do 
the  work  of  three  —  it  is  the  arithmetic  of  despair.  In 
these  ways  comes  the  slow  crushing  of  those  not  found 
fitted  to  survive  —  in  a  world  where  survival  is,  after  all, 
hardly  an  honour. 

"  Let  me  help  you,"  cried  the  young  heiress,  leaning  for- 
ward in  the  darkness  and  touching  Mary's  hand.  This 
confidence  on  the  part  of  a  working  girl  was  very  sweet 
to  one  whose  superfluous  wealth  had  meant  a  kind  of 
isolation. 

"  You  ! "  exclaimed  Mary  Burns.  She  was  thinking  of 
her  new  fifty  cents,  and  of  the  two  dollars  that  her  friend 
probably  received.  The  word  stung  Annice,  and  she  shrank 
back  into  her  chair.  Did  she  want  to  aid  people  with  her 
father's  money  ?  The  air-castle  that  she  had  been  building 
for  buying  back  the  little  farm,  sold  at  auction  for  eight- 
hundred  dollars,  tumbled  about  her  ears.  She  could  not 
use  the  money  earned  at  Smith's,  and  —  she  was  penniless. 

"  I  guess  you  need  help  yourself,  more,"  said  Mary. 
"  Thank  you  just  the  same." 

"  I  think  I  do,"  said  Annice  Gordon,  sadly. 

Mary  lighted  a  tallow  candle  and  looked  at  the  little 
nickel  clock  on  the  mantel.  It  was  time  to  go  for  Jennie. 
She  escorted  her  guest  down  the  flights  of  ill-smelling 
stairs,  put  out  the  candle,  and  carefully  hid  it,  with  a 
match  at  the  side,  in  a  dark  corner  on  the  ground  floor. 
They  went  from  the  dark  court  into  the  half-lighted  street. 
Annice  was  terrified.  Half-drunken  men  staggered  into 
their  way,  and  saucy  boys  called  after  them.  People,  crowded 
together  on  tenement-house  doorsteps,  stared  and  smiled, 
refusing  to  move  out  of  the  way.  But  the  fearlessness  of 
Mary  Burns  was  inspiring.  She  walked  straight  ahead, 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  127 

her  eyes  fixed  on  her  objective  point,  deaf  to  the  remarks 
sent  after  her,  and  with  but  one  thought  in  her  mind,  that 
of  protecting  the  girl  at  her  side. 

Schlesinger's  was  a  small  department-shop  in  the  heart 
of  the  slums.  It  stood  on  a  corner,  its  wares  displayed 
in  the  windows  and  on  the  streets  :  sauce-pans,  brooms, 
dusters,  hammocks,  rough  clothing  for  men,  shoes.  Mary 
went  like  an  arrow  through  the  main  room,  and  dragged 
Annice  with  her  down  the  basement  stairs.  Jennie  looked 
up  and  smiled. 

"'Most  ready,"  she  said.  She  was  putting  away  tin 
cups,  iron  spoons,  rolling-pins,  and  cake-cutters. 

"It's  Annie  Whitney,"  whispered  Mary. 

"  She  talks  a  good  deal  about  you,"  said  Jennie,  looking 
at  Annice,  but  going  on  steadily  with  her  work.  Her  eyes 
startled  Annice.  Even  her  mother's  patient  eyes  had  al- 
ways begged  for  something  —  peace.  This  woman's  face 
seemed  free  from  even  so  gentle  a  demand  as  that.  It  was 
untroubled,  unattached,  as  if  nothing  could  touch  it  again. 
A  peculiar  expression  passed  over  it  as  she  looked  at  the 
visitor,  and  she  stopped  for  a  minute,  an  armful  of  tin  things 
in  her  hands. 

"  Maybe  you  wouldn't  feel  flattered  if  you  was  told  that 
you  resemble  my  grandmother,"  she  remarked, "  but  you  do." 

The  minute's  delay  confused  her,  and  the  armful  of  tin 
things  rattled  to  the  floor.  She  stooped  to  pick  them  up, 
and  fainted.  Mary  stretched  her  sister  out  on  the  floor, 
picked  up  a  tin  pan,  and  fanned  her  vigorously.  Annice 
placed  a  huge  feather  duster  under  the  sick  girl's  feet. 

"  There  ain't  a  waiting-room  in  this  place,  there  ain't  a 
sofa,"  said  Mary,  indignantly.  "  This  thing  has  happened 
twice  before.  She  always  gets  faint  when  she  has  to  stand 
up  all  day  and  all  the  evening  too." 

A  clerk  in  a  blue  blouse  asked  if  he  could  do  anything  to 
help.  Others  gathered  in  a  group,  shutting  off  the  air. 

"  Get  me  some  water,  please,"  said  Mary,  "  and  send 
these  people  away." 


128  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

They  went  reluctantly.  Annice  and  Mary,  kneeling 
on  the  floor,  watched  Jennie's  eyes  as  they  slowly  opened. 
A  faint  smile  came  to  her  lips  as  she  saw  Annice. 

"  Don't  mind  me,"  she  said.  "  It's  nothing.  It's  just 
my  spine." 


CHAPTER   XI 

ROFESSOR  PENROSE  was  lonely. 
Everybody  was  away.  Juliette  was 
in  Florida.  Annice  Gordon  had  not 
yet  come  home.  Despite  the  early 
twilights  these  autumn  days  seemed  to 
drag  on  to  an  unwarrantable  length. 
The  calf-bound  books  in  the  library  had 
lost  their  wonted  spell.  For  once,  the  past  was  no  com- 
pany for  Professor  Pen  rose. 

That  baffled  purpose  had  brought  restlessness  into  his 
scholar  calm.  He  had  a  feeling  that  he  was  shut  away 
from  life's  banquet,  and  he  was  an-hungered.  Annice 
was  constantly  in  his  mind.  Unconsciously,  as  he  wrote 
his  lectures  at  his  beautiful  rosewood  desk,  or  read  at  the 
table,  his  hand  at  his  forehead,  one  soft  gray  lock  of  hair 
falling  over  his  slender  ringers,  he  was  planning  the  future. 
The  household  need  not  be  broken  up.  Juliette  was  fond 
of  Annice,  and  the  girl's  coming  would  be  to  her,  in  a 
way,  the  returning  of  her  dead  daughter.  Standing  by  his 
diamond-paned  latticed  windows,  or  strolling  over  the 
campus  and  among  the  college  buildings,  the  lover  planned 
the  next  winter's  reading  with  Annice  in  early  Italian 
art  and  literature.  Despite  the  unwonted  excitement  of 
so  strong  a  strain  upon  his  feelings,  Mr.  Penrose  was 
K  129 


1 30  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

happy.  Life  was  at  its  best  for  him  when  seen  through  a 
mist  of  dreams. 

It  was  Indian  summer.  There  were  heaps  of  dried 
leaves  in  the  streets,  and  the  founder's  statue  in  the 
centre  of  the  quadrangle  stood  under  a  shower  of  golden 
leaves.  From  corners  on  the  highways  and  from  behind 
the  cemetery  wall  rose  the  faint  smoke  of  bonfires,  bring- 
ing back,  in  its  poignant  odours,  a  sense  of  myriad  days 
long  gone.  Gracious  November  sunshine  rested  over 
everything,  and  man,  like  nature,  fell  into  an  Indian 
summer  mood. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  rare  days  that  Penrose,  strolling 
under  an  avenue  of  yellow  maples  on  the  common,  and 
studying  the  values  of  their  colour  against  the  veiled  blue 
of  the  sky,  bethought  him  of  his  purpose  in  regard  to  Mary 
Burns.  Why  had  he  not  remembered  before  ?  Action  of 
any  kind  would  serve  to  lighten  these  hours  of  loneliness. 
Why  should  he  not  go  now  ?  There  were  no  lectures  to 
be  given  to-day.  He  consulted  his  watch.  It  was  half- 
past  three.  He  turned  and  walked  down  Jersey  Avenue 
toward  the  bridge  that  connected  the  south  side  of  the  city 
with  the  north.  Smith's  was  somewhere  over  the  river. 
He  did  not  know  where. 

He  enjoyed  that  walk,  down  the  crowded  street  and 
across  the  river.  Passing  faces  had  a  remote  interest  for 
him,  and  the  human  spectacle  rarely  failed  to  charm.  The 
sight  of  a  group  of  students,  with  shapeless  felt  hats  tilted 
awry  over  unkempt  hair,  marred  his  pleasure  and  made 
him  shiver  with  a  momentary  consciousness  of  how  this 
rough  life  had  always  grated  on  his  nerves.  He  had  no 
gospel  for  the  badly  dressed.  He  forgot  this  touch  of  irri- 
tation, however,  as  he  paused  on  the  bridge  to  watch  the 
restless  steam-tugs  and  ferry-boats  making  tumult  in  the 
harbour.  He  even  looked,  with  brotherly  interest,  at  a 
tramp  who  happened  to  be  sharing  this  minute  of  enjoy- 
ment with  him ;  looked,  and  moved  away.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  bridge  he  asked  an  Irish  policeman  where 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  131 

Smith's  was  to  be  found.  The  policeman  looked  at  his 
questioner  with  a  slow  glance  that  travelled  from  that 
gentleman's  distinguished  hat  to  the  tips  of  his  slender 
boots,  dirty  now  with  common  dirt. 

"  Where  have  you  been,"  said  the  policeman,  "  and  you 
don't  know  where  Smith's  is?  Keep  right  on.  It's  on 
this  street,  Dowden  Avenue,  to  the  left." 

He  kept  on.  Dowden  Avenue  was  unknown  to  him. 
He  walked  with  difficulty  through  the  unmannerly  crowd. 
Especially  trying  were  the  minutes  when  sticky-looking 
children  ran  against  him.  One  chubby  Irish  boy  stumbled 
and  fell,  grasping  with  both  hands  the  professor's  knee  in 
order  to  right  himself.  Penrose  freed  the  injured  member 
and  hastened  on.  There  was  tumult  behind  him.  Rough 
music  sounded  in  his  ears.  Rattling  through  the  middle  of 
the  street  came  a  great  band-wagon,  drawn  by  four  horses. 
The  shrieking  brass  instruments  were  playing :  "  Hail  the 
Conquering  Hero  comes  !  "  Words  were  printed  on  the 
sides  of  the  wagon  :  "  Go  TO  SMITH'S  !  EVENT  OF  A  LIFE- 
TIME !  "  A  crowd  of  screaming  boys  who  ran  after  the 
chariot  nearly  upset  Mr.  Penrose  as  he  stood  to  look.  A 
little  farther  on  he  saw  the  establishment  itself.  He  wan- 
dered vaguely  in,  and  stood  transfixed  before  the  spectacle 
that  met  his  eyes.  Nothing  in  his  previous  life  and  train- 
ing had  prepared  him  for  this. 

He  knew  how  he  meant  to  proceed,  he  said  to  himself, 
as  he  pressed  his  finger  to  his  forehead,  trying  to  think  in 
the  confusion  of  this  crowd  where  it  was  difficult  even  to 
keep  his  feet.  He  was  going  to  the  manager  to  inquire 
about  a  girl  called  Mary  Burns.  But  he  almost  forgot  his 
quest,  yielding  to  the  fascinations  of  this  strange  place. 
The  short-sighted  brown  eyes  gazed  in  bewildered  fashion 
from  behind  the  gold-rimmed  eye-glasses,  at  collections  of 
artificial  flowers,  purple,  magenta,  solferino ;  at  the  display 
of  cheap  books.  Freeing  his  arm  from  the  crowd,  he 
picked  up  one  of  the  books.  It  was  by  the  Duchess.  He 
touched  The  Light  of  Asia  furtively  with  the  tip  of  his 


132  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

finger,  and  examined  a  seven-cent  edition  of  Macaulay's 
Lays  of  Ancient  Rome. 

"  Extraordinary,"  he  murmured  under  his  silky  beard, 
"  the  tastes  of  the  vulgar !  " 

There  seemed  to  be  no  one  of  whom  he  could  make  in- 
quiries. Every  one  was  busy.  The  cash-girls  were  run- 
ning from  counter  to  desk  with  speed  that  struck  him  as 
miraculous.  The  clerk  in  the  book-department  was  sell- 
ing a  volume  to  a  belated  traveller,  and  had  no  time  to 
answer  questions.  Carried  by  the  crowd  past  the  spot 
where  refreshments  were  dispensed,  he  was  asked  if  he 
would  have  a  cup  of  tea,  and  he  declined  hurriedly,  courte- 
ously, shuddering  lest  so  trying  a  fate  should  befall  him. 
Bent  on  discovery,  he  worked  his  way  toward  the  toy- 
counter.  Here,  interest  passed  into  bewilderment  and  be- 
wilderment into  confusion  as  he  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  Henry  Worthington. 

41  Good  afternoon,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  he  could  recover 
his  breath.  "  Are  you  —  shopping  here  ?  " 

Henry,  in  a  sheltered  corner,  had  been  examining  a 
note-book,  glancing  furtively  now  and  then  toward  the  toy- 
counter  with  a  look  that  a  spectator  might  have  inter- 
preted as  indicative  of  a  desire  for  jumping-jacks  and  pink 
balloons. 

"  No,"  said  Henry,  indignantly,  "  I'm  studying." 

Mr.  Penrose  adjusted  his  glasses  and  tried  to  convince 
himself  that  he  saw  straight. 

"The  Light  of  Asia"  he  murmured,  "Molly  Bawn,  The 
Man  from  New  Tork" 

"It's  facts,  not  books,"  said  Henry.  "Look  here, 
Penrose,  are  you  busy  ?  I'd  like  to  consult  you  about 
something." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Professor  Penrose.  "  Shall  we  step 
outside  ? " 

"  We  might  sit  down  here,"  said  Henry,  insinuatingly. 
"  Nobody's  here,"  he  added  with  regret. 

Mr.  Penrose  had  stopped  to  contemplate  a  collection  of 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  133 

twenty-five  cent  busts  of  Dewey,  Sampson,  and  Lieutenant 
Hobson,  arranged  in  the  shadow  of  a  ragged  pennant 
captured  from  a  Spanish  vessel.  The  sight  of  anything 
connected  with  the  late  unfortunate  war  was  exceedingly 
painful  to  him.  He  suffered  from  the  mistakes  of  his 
country  as  only  those  gifted  with  superior  and  inactive 
enlightenment  can  suffer. 

The  two  men  seated  themselves  on  two  high  stools  by 
the  toy-counter.  Mr.  Penrose  looked  inquiringly  down 
toward  his  feet. 

"  I  came  on  a  peculiar  errand,"  he  observed,  forgetting 
Henry's  request.  He  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  he  ought 
to  explain  himself.  "  The  fact  is,  I  am  deeply  interested 
in  a  young  girl." 

Henry  blushed.     The  professor  hurried  on. 

"  Several  years  ago  in  the  country  I  discovered  a  little 
girl  with  ambitions.  I  have  always  thought  I  should  like 
to  assist  her  in  some  way,  that  perhaps  my  sister  could  be 
of  service  to  her." 

He  paused,  wondering  if  Henry  would  make  the  kind  of 
remark  in  regard  to  the  situation  that  his  sister  had  made. 
Relieved  to  find  that  he  did  not,  and  thinking  better  of 
himself  in  consequence,  the  professor  proceeded.  Neither 
noticed  the  girl  who  had  charge  of  the  toy-counter. 
Annice  had  been  talking  for  a  minute  with  Mary  Burns, 
and  had  stolen  back  to  her  place.  Amazed  at  seeing 
Professor  Penrose  there,  talking  with  the  young  man  who 
was  investigating  things  so  thoroughly,  she  concealed  her- 
self round  the  corner,  for  the  toy-counter  occupied  the  end 
of  a  long  V-shaped  partition,  and  wondered  what  would 
happen  if  he  should  ask  to  see  some  toys.  Just  why  he 
should  be  here  was  an  enigma.  The  unforeseen  dangers 
of  her  experiment  set  her  heart  beating,  and  she  lost  her- 
self in  plans  for  escape,  when  suddenly  her  attention  was 
arrested  by  the  sound  of  her  father's  name. 

"  Gordon  ?  "  Mr.  Penrose  was  saying.  "  I  know  him 
very  little.  With  his  daughter  I  am  well  acquainted. 


I34  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

She  visits  at  my  sister's."  Mr.  Penrose  looked  at  Henry 
with  an  expression  that  said  she  needed  no  introduction 
after  that.  "  Have  you  met  her  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Henry,  impatiently.  He  was  eager  to 
unburden  his  mind.  "I  —  " 

"  That  reminds  me  of  an  extraordinary  coincidence," 
interrupted  the  professor.  "The  girl  I  was  speaking  of 
is  a  poor  relative  of  Gordon's.  The  family  is  of  humble 
origin,  you  know,"  he  remarked  apologetically.  His  future 
relations  with  Annice  made  him  in  a  manner  responsible 
for  the  shortcomings  of  all  her  race.  "  Well,  that  girl, 
at  the  last  account  I  had  of  her,  was  working  in  this  very 
shop.  If  she  is  still  here,  and  if  the  story  my  sister  tells 
me  is  true,  that  this  place  belongs  to  Gordon,  she  is  taking 
employment  from  a  family  enemy.  There  was  some 
trouble  about  a  will,  and  the  girl's  mother  and  Gordon 
were  not  on  speaking  terms." 

Henry  began  to  look  interested. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ought  to  tell  the  story,"  observed 
Mr.  Penrose,  looking  at  the  boy  with  a  judicial  air,  "  and 
yet  it  was  no  secret.  The  whole  neighbourhood  talked  the 
matter  over  freely.  And  there's  a  great  deal  of  character- 
interest  attaching  to  the  incident.  Possibly  there's  no 
harm  in  sharing  it.  About  ten  years  ago  it  fell  to  my  lot 
to  pass  a  part  of  the  summer  in  the  country,  at  a  place 
about  forty  miles  from  here.  It  was  a  charming  spot, 
charming.  I  won't  stop  to  tell  you  about  it  now,"  he 
said,  wondering  at  Henry's  impatience.  "  I  was  recovering 
from  the  effects  of  a  fall  from  my  horse,  and  I  was  cared 
for  in  the  family  of  this  cousin  of  Mr.  Gordon." 

"  I  remember,"  said  his  hearer,  nodding.  "  It  was  the 
year  I  entered  college." 

"  I  became  very  much  interested  in  this  country  woman," 
observed  Mr.  Penrose.  His  manner  conferred  an  honour 
upon  her.  "  She  was  very  intelligent,  and  just  at  that 
minute  she  was  smarting  under  a  sense  of  wrong.  I  like 
best  to  observe  the  human  soul  when  it  is  under  the  in- 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  135 

fluence  of  deep  feeling,"  said  Penrose,  meditatively.  "  Her 
aunt  had  just  died,  an  aunt  to  whom  my  hostess  had  de- 
voted her  life.  She  was  suffering  from  grief  and  from  a 
feeling  of  having  been  defrauded  of  her  inheritance. 
Gordon,  the  only  son  of  this  aunt,  had  had  his  mother's 
will  drawn  up,  and  at  the  woman's  death,  the  niece  found 
that  she  had  only  twenty-five  dollars,  instead  of  the  two- 
thousand-dollar  legacy  her  aunt  had  promised  her." 

Penrose  had  grown  animated.  He  had  put  his  hand  on 
Henry's  knee,  and  was  talking  in  that  distinguished  way 
which  had  so  often  graced  a  lecture  platform.  Annice, 
her  desire  for  concealment  forgotten,  had  come  out  of  her 
hiding-place,  and  stood,  breathless,  her  shining  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  two  men. 

"  Well,  undoubtedly  Gordon  was  responsible  for  that  will, 
but  the  curious  thing  is,  he  seemed  to  be  acting  conscien- 
tiously in  the  matter.  Old  Mrs.  Gordon  had  looked  on 
her  niece  as  a  daughter,  had  shared  her  home  in  age.  Mrs. 
Gordon  told  her  son  that  she  wished  the  property  to  be 
divided  equally  between  himself  and  his  cousin.  Gordon 
found,  on  examining  the  matter,  that  it  amounted  to  only 
about  two  thousand  dollars,  a  smaller  sum  than  he  sup- 
posed. He  got  the  idea  into  his  head  that  his  cousin  had 
already  had  her  full  portion,  that  she  had  received  presents 
from  Mrs.  Gordon  in  secret.  So  he  made  the  will  as 
he  did,  telling  his  mother  that  he  had  arranged  matters 
as  she  wanted  them.  She  signed  the  document  without 
reading  it,  for  she  had  full  confidence  in  him,  and  died 
happy. 

"  My  hostess  was  very  bitter,  and  she  showed  an  amount 
of  penetration  that  astonished  me.  Did  you  ever  notice 
how  much  insight  into  character  we  sometimes  find  among 
the  lower  classes?  'Samuel  has  convinced  himself  that 
that  story  is  true,'  she  said.  l  He  can  always  pull  the  wool 
over  his  own  eyes.  He  thinks  I've  cheated  Aunt  Jane  out 
of  my  half  of  the  money,  and  he  wants  to  set  things  straight. 
He  didn't  want  to  appear  a  rogue,  but  he  wanted  the 


136  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

money,  so  he  made  himself  believe  that  thing,  and  he  tried 
to  make  me.' '  Mr.  Penrose  paused. 

"  Isn't  that  almost  equal  to  Shakespeare  ? "  he  asked, 
with  animation :  — 

"  '  Would' st  not  play  false, 
And  yet  would'st  wrongly  win.' 

Yet  she  had  never  read  Macbeth.  I  asked  her.  Well,  that 
woman  died  not  long  after  my  sojourn  in  her  house.  The 
farm  was  sold  for  debt,  and  the  two  daughters  came  to 
the  city  to  work.  I've  always  meant  to  assist  them  in  some 
way  if  they  needed  it,  but  for  some  reason  I  lost  track  of 
them.  I  was  abroad."  He  looked  guiltily  at  Henry,  and 
an  expression  of  wistful  regret  broke  the  indifference  of 
his  face.  u  The  whole  matter  slipped  my  mind  until  the 
other  night  when  I  heard  the  second  tale  about  Gordon  and 
was  set  to  thinking  how  curiously  human  affairs  are  woven 
together.  This  is  no  place  for  a  girl  like  little  Mary.  She 
was  full  of  promise,  and  fitted  for  better  things." 

Henry's  scowl  had  deepened. 

"  Let's  get  out  of  this  place,"  he  said.  "  I  should  like 
to  hear  the  rest  of  this.  Everything  I  hear  about  Gordon 
is  of  the  most  damaging  character." 

He  had  completely  forgotten  his  desire  to  ask  Miss 
Whitney  further  economic  questions.  He  rose  and  walked 
away  without  a  word.  But  Professor  Penrose,  rising  and 
turning,  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Annice  Gordon. 
Her  terrified  gray-green  eyes  stared  helplessly  into  his  dazed 
brown  ones.  Neither  spoke.  The  lover  hardly  knew 
whether  it  was  a  maiden  of  flesh  and  blood  who  stood  before 
him,  or  only  an  image  from  his  dreams,  projected  into  space. 
When  he  saw  that  she  moved,  he  turned  and  followed 
Henry,  trying  to  shake  off  a  feeling  of  paralysis  that  stiffened 
his  whole  frame. 

The  air  outside  revived  him.  Henry  hailed  a  passing 
car. 

"  Come  out  and  take  a  walk  with  me  on  the  marshes, 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  137 

Penrose,"  the  young  man  was  saying.  "  I  want  to  talk 
some  things  over  with  you."  It  was  well  that  Henry  did 
not  wait  for  an  answer.  Penrose  was  incapable  at  that 
minute  of  either  assent  or  demur.  Before  he  knew  what 
had  happened  he  found  himself  on  the  back  seat  of  an  open 
electric  car,  in  the  fumes  of  unsavoury  tobacco,  being  whirled 
along  in  the  face  of  a  breeze  that  disarranged  his  beard, 
over  the  bridge,  through  South  Winthrop,  out  into  the  open 
country  by  the  sea. 

u  There  !  "  said  Henry,  as  they  alighted.  "  Now  we 
can  talk.  I  want  some  advice,"  he  added,  as  they  stepped 
upon  the  driveway  by  the  sea.  "  You  belong  to  the  uni- 
versity. You  are  just  the  man  to  help  me.  I  want  to 
know  if  you  think  that  a  place  like  Winthrop,  standing  for 
all  that  is  best  in  the  intellectual  and  moral  life  of  the 
country,  has  any  right  to  money  earned  dishonestly." 

"  I  never,"  said  Mr.  Penrose,  turning  his  dazed  brown 
eyes  upon  his  companion,  "  had  occasion  to  consider  the 
question." 

The  eyes  of  both  men  fell  on  the  huge  board  comet 
bearing  the  advertisement  of  Smith's.  Henry  groaned. 
Even  in  the  marshes  they  could  not  escape.  The  trail  of 
the  serpent  was  everywhere. 

"  There's  occasion  now,"  he  cried  hotly.  "  From  all  I 
can  learn  about  Gordon,  his  money  isn't  the  kind  of  thing 
we  ought  to  handle.  Let's  get  up  a  paper  and  protest." 

They  passed  a  jutting  point  of  land  near  a  little  wood. 
In  front  of  them  a  rocky  meadow  lay,  full  of  dead  golden- 
rod,  whose  pale-brown  faded  flowers  stood  out  against  a 
background  of  blue  sea.  Two  tiny  vessels  drifted  softly 
past,  their  white  sails  set  wing  and  wing.  Mr.  Penrose 
stood,  leaning  his  elbow  on  a  lichen-covered  rail  on  the 
fence  by  the  meadow,  listening  to  Henry  with  the  look  of 
one  who  is  trying  to  hear  a  voice  that  comes  from  a  long 
way  off.  Henry  waited,  gazing  with  assumed  patience, 
down  through  the  wood  toward  the  white  lighthouse  that 
stood  on  a  rocky  point  not  far  away.  The  beauty  of  the 


138  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

picture,  the  long  stretch  of  curving  shore,  the  distant  city 
with  its  encompassing  heights,  seen  through  a  broken  veil 
of  faded  red  oak  leaves,  escaped  him.  In  this  moment  of 
depression  the  lighthouse  guarding  the  entrance  to  the 
university  town  seemed  unpleasantly  symbolic,  from  the 
fact  that  it  was  no  longer  used  and  had  no  light. 

"  I  have  always  held,"  Mr.  Penrose  was  saying,  "  that  it 
is  better,  if  we  are  to  keep  the  untroubled  serenity  of  our 
academic  life,  for  scholars  not  to  concern  themselves  too 
much  with  political  and  practical  questions  such  as  you 
suggest." 

The  young  man  controlled  himself  with  effort. 

"  I  cannot  agree  with  you,"  he  said  curtly.  "  I  fail  to 
see  what  is  to  become  of  the  country  if  men  who  have 
other  motives  than  those  of  mere  self-interest  stand  aloof 
from  practical  politics  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets 
and  do  nothing.  But  that's  not  the  question  now.  I  want 
to  discuss  this  special  matter  of  the  gift." 

"  It  is  a  new  species  of  scruple,"  remarked  Penrose, 
brushing  a  bit  of  lichen  from  his  coat.  "  It  has  not  been 
the  habit  of  institutions  so  far  as  I  know  to  enter  into  a 
discussion  of  the  way  in  which  benefactions  are  obtained." 

"But  it  is  time  that  institutions  should  consider  the  ques- 
tion," said  Henry,  eagerly.  "We  stand  among  the  thinkers 
of  our  country.  There  is  no  doubt  that  a  more  sensi- 
tive economic  conscience  is  being  born  in  these  last  few 
years.  We  can't  afford  to  lag  behind  the  public.  If  our 
industrial  laws  are  to  be  arraigned,  it  should  be  done  by 
men  of  thought,  who  are  capable  of  dealing  with  the  ques- 
tion in  a  broad-minded  way." 

Penrose  hesitated.  He  did  not  wish  to  commit  himself. 
In  matters  literary  his  opinions  were  decisive,  final.  From 
his  personal  opinion  there  was  no  appeal.  In  matters  reli- 
gious and  ethical  he  suspended  judgment.  A  certain  wari- 
ness of  intellect  had  always  kept  him  from  being  trapped 
into  too  genuine  a  doubt  or  too  genuine  a  belief.  A  spirit- 
ual diplomat,  he  had  for  years  maintained  a  truce  between 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  139 

scepticism  and  conviction.  He  had  an  indulgent  way  of 
intimating  to  the  Creator  that  he  saw  through  him,  yet  he 
tried  after  a  fashion  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  him,  lest, 
after  all,  the  credulity  of  men  should  prove  true.  For  the 
rest,  he  had  avoided  political  and  economic  questions. 
These  things  savoured  too  much  of  the  vulgar  present. 

As  Henry  watched  him,  a  wave  of  that  old  passionate 
wish  to  carry  the  burden  of  things  came  over  him,  and  he 
forgot  everything  except  this  burning  desire  to  save  from 
wrong  action  the  university  that  he  loved. 

"  Penrose,"  he  said,  "  help  me  fight  this  thing  out. 
What  you've  told  me  this  afternoon  simply  clinches  the 
whole  matter.  Gordon  is  unscrupulous.  His  fortune  is 
an  economic  disgrace.  A  decent  institution  has  no  right 
to  it.  I've  got  to  take  the  thing  up.  It  is  a  question  of 
right  and  wrong,  and  I  can't  shirk.  But  it's  going  to  break 
my  father's  heart.  I've  got  nobody  to  stand  by  me.  You 
must." 

Professor  Penrose  shook  his  head. 

"  It  isn't  in  my  line,  Henry,"  he  said.  "  I  know  noth- 
ing about  money  matters.  I  should  be  of  no  use." 

"  But,  Penrose,"  cried  Henry,  desperately,  "  tell  me  if  I 
oughtn't  to  do  it.  Tell  me  if  I  ought  to  stop  on  father's 
account.  It's  horribly  hard." 

Penrose  laid  his  hand  on  Henry's  shoulder.  He  was 
looking  straight  at  the  boy,  yet  Henry  felt  that  Penrose  did 
not  see  him.  The  young  man  was  vaguely  conscious  that 
something  was  troubling  the  older  one.  His  English  ac- 
cent had  deserted  him  completely.  This  happened  only  in 
moments  of  great  emotion. 

"  It's  a  difficult  matter  for  another  person  to  decide,"  he 
said. 

Henry  saw  that  further  appeal  was  useless. 

"  I  must  go  home,"  he  said.  "  I  have  a  lecture  to  finish. 
Will  you  come  ?  " 

Penrose  shook  his  head  with  a  chastened  smile. 

"  I  think  I'll  take  a  stroll,"  he  said.     "  Good  night." 


140  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

As  he  moved  on  with  his  long,  gentle  stride,  in  all  his 
unruffled  distinction,  not  one  of  his  soft  gray  hairs  out  of 
place,  Henry  looked  after  him  with  bitter  condemnation. 

"  If  academic  life  leads  to  that,"  he  said  contemptuously, 
grinding  the  dust  with  his  heel,  "  I'll  be  a  coal-heaver 
instead." 

He  turned  and  went  back  for  his  car. 

Penrose  drew  a  sigh  of  relief  at  being  alone.  He  could 
hear  nothing,  feel  nothing  but  his  own  present  trouble.  It 
coloured  earth  and  sky  and  sea.  In  that  shop,  behind  a 
counter,  he  had  seen  Annice  Gordon,  the  maiden  of  his 
choice,  occupied  apparently  with  a  shop-girl's  duties.  All 
the  reasons  for  this  extraordinary  conduct  that  imagination 
could  summon  proved  inadequate.  Possibly  it  was  some 
form  of  temporary  insanity.  Did  her  family  know  ? 
Ought  he  to  tell  his  sister  ?  There  was  relief  in  the 
thought  of  insanity.  If  this  were  not  so,  it  was  a  bit  of 
masquerading,  a  school-girl's  escapade,  a  scrap  of  vulgar 
drama  that  would  stamp  Annice  forever  as  outside  his 
world.  He  remembered  those  queer,  unaccountable  lapses 
in  taste  that  he  had  noted  before. 

Professor  Penrose's  eyes  searched  the  landscape  about 
him  for  relief,  but  in  vain.  There  stretched  the  marshes 
that  he  loved,  where  the  vivid  yellow  of  marsh-grass  was 
tangled  with  the  brown.  The  sun  was  going  down,  a  dull 
red  ball  in  the  flushing  sky  of  the  west.  The  red  light 
was  caught  in  the  haze  among  the  trees  of  the  little  wood, 
lingered  round  the  oak  leaves,  touched  with  crimson  the 
long  lagoons  in  the  flat  brown  meadows  at  his  feet.  For 
once,  visible  beauty  did  not  mean  escape  from  trouble. 
The  air  grew  chilly,  and  Mr.  Penrose,  as  he  turned  toward 
home,  shivered  under  the  shock  that  the  strong  demands  of 
clear  sunshine  and  his  recent  terrible  enlightenment  had 
made  upon  his  love. 


CHAPTER   XII 

OMING  down  the  crowded  steps  of 
an  elevated  railway  station  in  Chicago, 
Mr.  Gordon  happened  to  remember 
that  he  had  not  yet  opened  his  morn- 
ing's mail.  Business  was  pressing.  At 
Mott's  the  shoe-department,  the  carriage- 
department,  the  book-department  had  to 
be  enlarged.  The  tide  of  custom  was  going  all  his  way. 
This  morning  an  imperative  message  from  the  manager 
had  summoned  him  from  breakfast,  and  he  had  gone  down 
to  his  huge  establishment  with  a  gratified  sense  of  being 
the  recipient  of  that  temporal  good  promised  long  ago  to 
those  like  him.  The  letters  that  he  had  thrust  into  his 
breast  pocket  he  drew  out  now,  counting  them  slowly  as 
he  went  down  the  street. 

Five  letters,  all  with  type-written  addresses.  Why  was 
there  nothing  from  Annice  ?  He  had  expected  long  before 
this  a  letter  expressing  contrition  for  those  unfilial  words 
uttered  on  the  eve  of  his  departure.  Did  she  remember 
his  sacrifices,  his  hardships  endured  for  her  ?  Did  she  re- 
member the  time  when  her  mother  had  been  ill,  and  he 
had  walked  the  floor  with  the  wailing  baby  in  his  arms  for 
half  the  night  ?  The  paternal  care  that  he  had  lavished 
upon  her  had  met  with  this  reward.  An  irritated  sense  of 
fatherhood  deprived  of  its  due  settled  into  lines  of  injury 


142  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

at  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  He  had  been  more  dutiful  to 
his  parents. 

Opening  the  letters  one  by  one  as  he  pushed  his  way 
along  the  street,  thrusting  them  with  crumpled  edges  back 
into  their  envelopes,  he  stopped  suddenly,  stock-still,  gazing 
in  bewilderment  at  the  type-written  lines.  The  surging 
tide  of  Chicago  business  life  beat  against  him,  but  he  stood 
unmoved,  oblivious  to  the  fact  that  feet  were  treading  upon 
his  feet,  that  elbows  jostled  him  from  all  directions.  In  a 
half-dozen  business-like  lines  the  matron  of  the  Merton 
Home  for  Working  Girls  asked  Mr.  Gordon  to  tell  her 
what  he  knew  of  one  Annice  Whitney,  who  had  recently 
become  an  inmate  of  the  Home  and  was  working  now  at 
Smith's.  She  had  given  his  name  as  reference.  Mr.  Gordon 
saw  it  all.  His  naturally  keen,  suspicious  mind  had  been 
well  trained  in  the  world  of  trade  to  the  work  of  ferreting 
out  hard  problems.  The  unusual  name,  the  attempt  at 
disguise,  employment  at  Smith's  —  all  this  linked  itself 
with  his  last  half-hour  at  home,  with  the  girl's  undutiful 
accusation,  and  her  threat,  "  I  am  going  to  find  out."  In 
less  than  an  hour  Mr.  Gordon  was  on  an  eastern-bound 
express.  His  baggage  he  left  behind  him  at  the  hotel, 
telegraphing  back  from  the  first  station  that  it  was  to  be 
sent  on  by  express.  He  had  no  time  to  stop  for  trifles. 
The  family  reputation  was  at  stake. 

He  tried  not  to  think  on  that  swift  journey  home.  He 
kept  examining  the  documents  in  his  pockets,  the  reports 
of  the  cashier  at  Mott's,  and  balancing  up  the  receipts 
with  those  of  Smith's  at  Winthrop.  Undoubtedly  he  had 
been  prospered.  Wealth  like  his  meant  the  peculiar 
reward  of  right  doing.  He  had  been  singled  out  for 
special  blessing.  Sometimes  this  thought  made  him  almost 
forget  the  trouble  in  his  mind.  Then,  looking  out  at  the 
swiftly  rushing  fields  and  trees,  and  the  disappearing  roofs 
of  country  homesteads,  a  fear  of  possible  disgrace  stabbed 
him  sharply  in  his  most  vulnerable  spot. 

Anything  to  keep  from  thinking   of  that!     When  the 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  143 

mental  relief  to  be  found  in  his  business-concerns  was 
exhausted,  he  took  refuge  in  the  past.  With  pride  he  recog- 
nized one  unswerving  purpose  in  the  mind  of  the  bare- 
foot boy,  the  steady  youth,  the  struggling  young  man,  the 
regally  wealthy  self  of  the  present.  To  succeed;  to  keep 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  goal ;  to  be  a  person  of  importance, 
dignity,  power;  to  sway  men  and  command  homage  — 
here  was  the  aspiration  that  the  hardship  of  picking  up 
chips  for  his  mother  had  roused  in  the  bosom  of  the  five- 
year-old  child.  The  boys  in  the  district  school  had  laughed 
in  those  days  at  his  patched  trousers.  Gordon,  by  way  of 
revenge  for  that  derision,  now  flung  his  bank  account  into 
the  teeth  of  fate. 

But  in  all  this  life  of  endeavour  how  little  sympathy  had 
been  accorded  him  !  His  wife  had  never  understood.  Self- 
pity  passed  into  the  merchant's  eyes  as  he  remembered  how 
listlessly  Ellen  had  gazed  at  the  splendour  with  which  he 
had  surrounded  her.  She  had  failed  him  in  the  great  effort 
of  his  life.  And  now  his  daughter  —  not  the  unapprecia- 
tive  passivity  of  the  wife,  but  the  open  rebellion  of  the 
daughter,  was  to  be  faced.  Perhaps  it  was  the  penalty  of 
lofty  endeavour  to  be  always  misunderstood,  and  yet,  how 
sweet  would  sympathy  have  been  along  the  path  of  greatness  ! 

He  had  met  such  obstinacy  from  the  people  bound  to 
him  by  family  ties !  Annice  had  inherited  this  from  her 
mother,  whose  meek  exterior  had  covered  but  had  not  con- 
cealed a  pertinacious  clinging  to  her  own  opinion.  Spite 
of  long  experience  it  had  always  been  hard  for  Mr.  Gordon 
to  realize  that  people  could  have  tastes  or  opinions  unlike 
his  own.  His  mind  now  travelled  fretfully  back  to  the 
pleasures  he  had  devised  for  his  wife,  the  gifts  he  had 
showered  upon  her,  the  plans  he  had  made  and  had  insisted 
that  she  should  carry  out.  She  had  always  complied  and 
had  expressed  gratitude,  but  with  a  reserve.  Her  spoken 
words  he  had  controlled.  Her  silences  he  had  not  been 
able  to  master,  and  that  speechless  insubordination  angered 
him  even  now. 


144  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

From  these  slight  trials,  his  thought  wandered  back  to 
greater.  It  was  a  curious  fact  that  there  was  always  some- 
body in  Mr.  Gordon's  mind  from  whom  he  was  suffering 
present  injury.  A  word,  a  hint,  a  glimpse  of  some  bit  of 
life  upon  the  street,  was  constantly  rousing  latent  wrongs. 
Slow  brooding  meant  steady  accession  of  hurt  feeling,  until 
all  his  inner  consciousness  was  drowned  in  a  swelling  flood 
of  self-pity.  It  was  Jane  Burns  of  whom  he  was  thinking 
now.  Her  unjust  accusation  of  him  was  of  course  only  a 
proof  of  her  utter  lack  of  principle.  She  had  condemned 
herself  forever  in  that  attack  upon  his  character.  All  night 
long  in  his  narrow  berth  in  the  sleeping  car  Mr.  Gordon 
lived  over  this  story,  half  falling  asleep  to  dream  a  bit  of  it, 
waking  with  the  jolting  of  the  wheels  to  take  up  some  new 
fragment  of  it.  It  wove  itself  round  that  shadowy  landscape 
of  spectral  trees  and  dusky  streams  that  they  hurried  past 
in  the  night.  He  remembered  how  he  had  tried  to  win 
back  Jane's  liking,  for  the  old  wistful  longing  for  approval ' 
had  at  one  time  softened  his  feeling  of  resentment  toward 
her.  It  had  all  been  in  vain.  Then  he  recounted  the  steps 
he  had  taken  in  the  matter.  Little  things  had  shown  him 
the  right  course  of  action.  His  mother's  fortune  had  surely 
dwindled.  She  had  been  living  under  the  influence  of  Jane 
and  her  husband,  while  he  had  been  struggling  on  a  clerk's 
salary  to  make  his  way  in  the  world.  As  for  his  action,  he 
had  performed  a  simple  deed  of  justice.  To  be  defrauded 
of  his  inheritance  would  have  meant  to  him  not  mere  loss 
of  money,  but,  as  in  Bible  days,  the  losing  of  a  parent's 
blessing.  Had  not  the  event  proved  the  righteousness  of 
his  course  ?  A  little  seed  had  brought  great  harvest.  For 
that  small  sum  of  money  —  to  Gordon  now  it  seemed  piti- 
fully small  —  had  meant  the  turning-point  in  his  career. 
An  inexperienced  country  lad,  he  had  taken  those  few  thou- 
sands to  the  stock-market.  A  stroke  of  luck  had  blessed 
his  first  venture.  He  had  tried  again,  and  lo  !  a  fortune 
had  become  his.  He  had  made  a  corner  in  flour,  and  had 
held  up  the  price  until  the  poor  in  San  Francisco  and  Chi- 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  145 

cago  had  gone  hungry,  and  little  children  in  Italy  had  cried 
for  bread.  A  smile  came  to  Mr.  Gordon's  face  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  sleeping-car  as  he  recalled  the  keen  excitement 
of  those  days.  Europe  had  learned  of  the  existence  of  the 
small  boy  who  had  once  worn  patched  trousers.  The  mar- 
kets of  St.  Petersburg  and  of  Berlin  had  felt  the  touch  of 
power  in  his  finger.  There  was  a  little  quiver  of  satisfac- 
tion in  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  as  he  thought  of  this, 
and  he  stroked  it  gently  with  the  other  hand.  Resisting  all 
offers  for  future  speculation,  he  remembered  with  satisfac- 
tion, he  had  left  the  stock-market  just  in  time.  Such  pene- 
tration on  the  part  of  a  novice  in  knowing  when  to  stop  had 
not  been  heard  of  among  the  bulls  and  bears.  Now,  safely 
invested  in  retail  dry-goods  houses,  that  money  was  bringing 
him  rich  profit,  some  sixty,  some  a  hundred  fold. 

That  initial  action  had  been  just.  Had  he  not  done  it  ? 
Was  he  not  a  Gordon  ?  He  belonged  to  a  family  that  had 
always  been  in  the  right.  The  Gordons  had  been  righteous 
as  far  back  as  the  memory  of  man  could  go.  They  had 
been  pious,  thrifty,  canny,  each  handing  down  to  his  many 
descendants  his  patrimony  and  his  creed,  the  patrimony  in- 
creased by  good  management,  the  iron  creed  unchanged. 
Being  born  into  the  family  insured  one  in  this  life  a  gen- 
erous amount  of  self-respect,  and  in  the  world  to  come,  life 
everlasting.  To  Samuel  Gordon,  logic  was  logic,  blood 
was  blood.  The  fact  that  this  course  of  action  had  sug- 
gested itself  to  him  made  it  seem  almost  right.  His  having 
done  it  was  proof  positive. 

Yet  the  surety  of  one  minute  gave  way  to  the  misgiving 
of  the  next.  He  was  dressed  and  waiting  for  his  breakfast. 
It  is  a  hungry  moment  when  the  wine  of  life  runs  low. 
Mr.  Gordon  had  tipped  the  waiter  generously  in  order  to 
insure  prompt  service.  He  had  been  kept  waiting  for  fif- 
teen minutes.  He  kept  his  watch  out  in  his  hand,  snap- 
ping the  cover  now  and  then  to  relieve  his  feelings.  A 
momentary  suspicion  that  there  was  a  difference  between 
himself  and  the  moral  law  made  him  uncomfortable.  The 


146  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

forbidden  thought  of  Annice  and  her  nonsense  reinforced 
the  doubt.  He  allowed  himself  to  think  for  a  minute, 
only  a  minute,  of  his  record  in  retail  dry-goods  dealing  in 
Winthrop,  Chicago,  and  New  York.  This  record  he 
found  flawless,  according  to  the  laws  of  the  industrial  world. 
In  business  as  in  religion  Mr.  Gordon's  curse  had  been  the 
letter  of  the  law. 

It  was  with  relief  that  he  welcomed  to  a  neighbouring 
seat,  as  he  went  back  to  the  parlour  car,  a  fellow-trustee 
of  Winthrop  who  had  boarded  the  train  at  Pittsburg.  It 
was  Dr.  Bruce,  a  man  of  integrity,  honesty,  wisdom.  He 
nodded  pleasantly  to  Mr.  Gordon,  meanwhile  beating  the 
back  of  the  plush  chair  with  his  hand  and  watching  the 
dust  fly  up. 

"  Deadly  arrangement,"  he  observed,  shaking  his  head. 
"  Must  be  full  of  microbes.  The  company  ought  to  put 
in  wicker  chairs." 

Then  he  dropped  into  his  seat  and  began  reading  his 
newspaper.  He  stopped  and  turned  suddenly  to  Mr. 
Gordon. 

"  Fine  thing  you've  done  for  the  university,  Gordon," 
he  said.  "  I  suppose  it's  an  old  story  now,  but  I  haven't 
seen  you  since  I  heard  of  it.  It's  worth  while  making 
money  to  devote  to  purposes  like  that.  Is  your  daughter 
with  you  this  winter  ?  " 

Mr.  Gordon  answered  in  the  affirmative.  There  was  a 
glow  of  pleasure  in  his  stern  face,  full  of  uncertainty  of 
expression,  with  its  shifty  eyes  and  its  benignant  mouth. 

"  I  must  send  my  girls  to  call  on  her,"  Dr.  Bruce  was 
saying.  "  She  must  be  more  or  less  of  a  stranger  in 
Winthrop." 

Mr.  Gordon  sank  back  into  his  chair,  reassured. 
"  Worth  while  making  money  to  devote  to  purposes  like 
that  !  "  An  honest  man's  testimony  is  worth  having  to 
convince  one's  neighbour,  perhaps,  at  times,  even  to  con- 
vince one's  self  of  one's  own  integrity.  In  the  glow  of 
benevolence  that  followed,  he  planned  further  donations. 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  147 

He  would  make  a  magnificent  present  to  the  Poor  Relief 
Society  in  his  church.  A  slight  chill  lessened  the  warmth 
of  the  moment.  They  would  turn  the  money  into  a  gen- 
eral fund  and  few  would  know  who  gave  it.  But  that  old 
gnawing  discomfort  of  the  question,  "  Would  he  get  his 
'reward  ?  "  gave  way  to  more  serious  trouble.  The  refer- 
ence to  Annice  brought  back  the  tide  of  present  injury, 
stemmed  so  long.  Annice,  whom  the  best  people  in  Win- 
throp  were  ready  to  receive,  was  disgracing  him.  Now 
that  he  was  ready  to  show  the  world  a  spectacle  of  paternal 
and  filial  devotion,  she  had  ruined  all.  He  remembered 
a  story  he  had  heard  the  summer  before  of  a  girl  who  had 
given  up  her  lover  in  order  to  stay  at  home  and  sacrifice 
her  life  to  her  father.  He  had  wondered  then  if  his  daugh- 
ter would  do  so  much  for  him.  Tears  came  to  his  eyes 
as  he  thought  of  the  contrast.  Think  what  she  was  do- 
ing !  And  people  would  know. 

Mr.  Gordon  nodded.  He  was  getting  sleepy.  Some 
people  opposite  were  laughing.  He  opened  his  eyes  and 
looked  at  them  sharply.  Were  they  laughing  at  him  ? 
Apparently  not.  He  closed  his  eyes  again,  pulling  his 
black  silk  cap  down  over  his  forehead.  He  had  a  way  of 
thinking  that  people  were  making  disrespectful  references 
to  him.  Once  Jane  Burns  had  spoken  of  disliking  people 
whose  eyes  were  too  near  together.  Samuel  Gordon  had 
afterward  reproached  her  with  passing  that  criticism  upon 
his  eyes.  She  had  never  done  so,  but  yet  it  was  true. 
Why  would  his  thoughts  dwell  so  persistently  on  Jane 
Burns  ?  He  recalled  that  eventful  Sabbath  afternoon,  the 
last  before  his  mother's  death.  They  had  sent  for  him, 
knowing  that  the  end  was  near.  His  mother,  propped  up 
on  pillows,  gasping  for  breath  in  the  hot  summer  air,  had 
asked  to  have  certain  things  read  to  her,  some  psalms,  and 
her  own  will.  Old  Mrs.  Gordon  had  understood  neither 
the  Scripture  nor  the  will,  but  she  had  smiled  peacefully 
and  had  shut  her  eyes,  dozing.  Gordon  recalled  the  pic- 
ture that  had  met  his  eyes  upon  entering  the  room.  Jane 


148  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

Burns,  looking  with  indignant  eyes  at  the  will,  then  glanc- 
ing with  pitying  tenderness  at  the  worn  face  of  the  older 
woman,  almost  as  white  as  the  muslin  frill  of  the  old-fash- 
ioned cap  she  wore.  Mrs.  Gordon  had  half  wakened 
when  her  son  came  in. 

"  Is  it  Samuel  ?  "  she  said.  She  made  him  come  to  the 
bedside  that  she  might  touch  him,  and  the  old,  withered, 
dying  hand  had  wandered  tremulously  over  his  face. 

"  The  money's  all  right,  Samuel,  as  I  wanted  it  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"Just  as  you  wanted  it,"  he  answered.  "Equally  di- 
vided." He  cast  then  a  glance  of  reproof  at  his  cousin. 
Later,  Jane  and  her  husband  came  to  the  bedroom,  bent 
on  calling  the  will  into  question  in  the  presence  of  Mrs. 
Gordon.  Gordon  remembered  how  he  had  sent  them  away. 

"  It  is  the  Sabbath,"  he  said,  with  a  sweep  of  his  hand. 
u  This  is  no  time  for  the  discussion  of  business  matters. 
Money  ?  What  shall  it  profit  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole 
world  and  lose  his  own  soul?  Six  days  are  enough  for 
this  world." 

They  went  away.  He  stayed  by  his  mother's  bedside 
until  she  breathed  her  last. 

Gordon  grew  more  and  more  sleepy.  The  murmuring 
of  the  moving  train  set  itself  to  remembered  music.  He 
nodded,  humming  a  bit  of  psalm  they  used  to  sing  in  his 
boyhood : — 

"  That  man  hath  perfect  blessedness 

Who  walketh  not  astray 
In  counsel  of  ungodly  men, 
Nor  stands  in  sinners'  way. 

"  And  all  he  doth  shall  prosper  well, 

The  ungodly  are  not  so. 
But  like  they  are  unto  the  chaff, 
Which  wind  drives  to  and  fro." 

Wakening,  and  looking  out  of  the  window,  he  saw  that 
he  was  nearing  home.  A  huge  advertisement  stared  him 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  149 

in  the  face  from  a  neighbouring  meadow  :  "  FIFTEEN  MILES 
TO  SMITH'S."  A  little  farther  on  was  an  enormous  board 
man,  with  prices  of  clothing  painted  on  his  sleeves,  and 
"SMITH'S"  printed  in  capitals  across  his  chest.  Then 
came  a  wooden  circus-procession,  huge  elephant,  camel, 
giraffe,  buffalo,  each  carrying  upon  his  back  a  man  who 
was  labelled  as  an  eager  customer,  hurrying  to  Smith's.  The 
satisfaction  that  marks  the  nearing  of  familiar  and  pleasant 
things  brought  peace  to  Mr.  Gordon's  bosom.  He  saw 
his  mark  painted  on  the  roofs  of  barns,  on  the  fences,  in 
gigantic  wooden  letters,  cut  out  and  supported  by  iron 
staves.  The  rocks  bore  his  inscription.  And  now,  the 
huge  board  signs  announced,  "  SMITH'S.  Two  MILES  !  " 

Things  went  wrong  that  afternoon  at  Smith's.  The 
floor-walker  was  distinctly  cross.  Annice  stood  at  the  toy- 
counter,  her  hands  clasped,  gazing  toward  the  door  through 
which  Mr.  Penrose  and  his  companion  had  disappeared. 
Customers  who  asked  for  picture-books  and  rattles  were 
startled  by  the  tragic  eyes  she  turned  toward  them.  She 
forgot  her  newly  learned  trade.  A  ten-cent  doll  she  offered 
to  an  Irish  woman  for  a  dollar,  only  to  be  told  that  she 
was  daft. 

**  I  am  afraid  that  I  am,"  said  Annice  Gordon,  piteously. 

The  story  that  Mr.  Penrose  had  told  was  paralyzing  her. 
If  this  were  true,  there  was  no  good  anywhere.  Was  all 
that  her  father  had  said  to  her  about  character  mere  sham  ? 
She  looked  at  the  world  through  her  new  idea  of  his  per- 
sonality, and  she  found  it  bad.  There  was  nothing  to 
depend  upon  anywhere.  This  great  crushing  world  of 
work  and  weariness,  whose  was  it  ?  Why  was  it  ?  It 
was  brutal  and  meaningless.  Surely  her  father's  God 
made  any  God  impossible,  for  she  could  not  share  a  belief 
with  him. 

Absorbed  in  her  own  troubles  she  failed  to  see  the  greater 
misery  in  Mary  Burns's  face.  Mary  did  not  stop  to  think. 
She  worked  on  feverishly,  her  cheeks  on  fire.  She  laughed 
more  than  usual,  and  made  jokes  with  the  other  girls  at 


150  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

the  counter.  Mr.  Smith,  who  very  often  took  his  stand 
nowadays  near  the  ready-made-clothing  counter,  observed 
that  she  looked  unusually  handsome.  When  she  made  a 
blunder  in  her  work,  cutting  off  only  enough  gingham  for 
a  waist,  instead  of  enough  for  a  dress,  he  came  to  the  rescue 
at  once. 

"  Cut  off  another  dress-pattern,"  he  said,  "  and  put  this 
among  the  remnants.  Poor  little  girl,"  he  added ;  "  I 
think  you  must  be  tired." 

Mary's  eyes  followed  him  with  a  look  of  mingled  fear 
and  appeal.  He  had  surrounded  her  in  these  hard  days 
with  unobtrusive  kindnesses.  Perhaps  she  had  misunder- 
stood and  had  been  suspicious.  She  knew  only  that  a  terror 
haunted  her  night  and  day,  and  that  the  only  protecting 
smile  in  the  wide  world  was  on  that  man's  face.  She  did 
not  want  him  to  come  near  her,  only  to  stand  far  off, 
where  he  could  hear  her  cry  if  the  waters  came  near  enough 
for  drowning.  Help  she  must  have,  but  who  could  help  ? 
She  looked  toward  Annice  Whitney.  Annice  was  deaf 
and  blind  to-day  to  all  except  her  own  great  trouble.  And 
anyway,  how  could  a  girl  poorer  than  herself  aid  her  ? 

She  must  have  money.  Jennie  was  too  sick  to  work. 
Jennie  was  going  to  die  if  she  were  not  helped.  Rest  and 
good  food  might  save  her,  the  doctor  said.  Going  on  with 
her  work  at  Schlesinger's  could  have  only  one  end.  Hor- 
rible, sickening  fear  took  possession  of  Mary  Burns.  She 
must  do  something.  She  must  save  Jennie.  Her  own 
wages  would  support  them  for  a  time,  but  food  and  medi- 
cine would  cost  so  much.  Anxiety  was  making  the  girl 
irritable,  and  her  fits  of  gayety  ended  often  in  sharp  words 
to  the  girls  who  asked  her  help. 

"  She's  real  hateful,"  said  a  tiny  cash-girl,  whom  Mary 
had  befriended  once.  "  She  used  to  be  just  lovely.  I'm 
going  to  keep  her  waiting  for  change  just  as  long  as  I  can." 

Mary  was  struggling  with  a  heavy  bundle  which  she 
was  trying  to  put  upon  the  shelves  when  she  felt  the  bur- 
den lifted  from  her  hands. 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  151 

u  Let  me  help  you,"  said  Mr.  Smith. 

She  thanked  him  warmly. 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  do  anything  for  you,"  he  said.  "  I 
wish  I  might  do  more." 

He  started.  A  lady  had  approached,  smiling,  leading  a 
chubby  boy  in  sailor's  costume.  Mr.  Smith  greeted  her 
cordially  and  led  her  away. 

"  It's  Mrs.  Smith  and  his  kid,"  said  the  little  cash-girl, 
running  up  to  Mary  and  forgetting  the  enmity  she  had 
shown.  "  Ain't  it  sweet  ?  " 

Mary  turned  quickly  to  arrange  the  goods  upon  the 
shelves.  The  look  in  that  woman's  eyes  as  they  had  rested 
upon  her  made  her  hot.  The  little  cash-girl  was  hurt. 

"You  needn't  be  so  stuck  up,"  she  said  scornfully, 
"just  'cause  your  hair  curls.  Your  face  is  awful  red.  I 
bet  you  paint." 

Annice  was  not  surprised  when  her  father  entered  the 
door  that  day.  She  was  past  being  surprised  by  anything, 
she  told  herself.  She  looked  steadily  toward  him.  He 
saw  her  and  started  back.  The  girl's  sharp  condemnation 
of  him  softened,  to  her  own  regret  and  shame.  He  looked 
old,  tired,  dusty.  His  benevolent  air  had  slipped  away, 
leaving  a  gray,  harsh,  anxious  face.  She  was  sorry  for 
him.  She  was  sorry  for  herself.  She  was  sorriest  for  that 
unknown  girl  whose  little  patrimony  had  been  the  nest-egg 
for  her  father's  fortune. 

Mr.  Gordon  advanced  to  the  toy-counter. 

"  You  must  come  home,"  he  said  under  his  breath. 
Annice  hesitated.  One  of  her  fellow  clerks  was  looking 
at  her  with  curiosity.  She  pushed  a  music-box  toward 
her  father. 

"Two  dollars  and  a  half,"  she  said  aloud.  Then  she 
whispered  :  "  Please  go  away.  You  will  be  found  out." 

Mr.  Gordon  breathed  heavily.  He  was  baffled,  irritated. 
A  minute  after  he  began  to  help  play  the  farce.  He  lifted 
a  toy  bank. 

"  What  is  the  price  of  this  ?  " 


152  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

"  Fifty  cents/'  answered  his  daughter. 

"  Annice,"  he  said,  in  an  explosive  whisper,  "  I  com- 
mand you,  as  a  father,  to  return  to  your  home.  Will  you 
come  ? " 

The  man  who  had  bent  the  knee  to  the  golden  calf  for- 
got that  the  commandment,  "  Honour  thy  father  and  thy 
mother,"  comes  after  the  commandment,  "  Thou  shalt 
have  no  other  gods  before  me."  He  could  not  realize  that 
he  had  forfeited  his  rights. 

"  You  will  be  ill.  You  look  sick  now.  You  are  dis- 
gracing me,"  he  continued. 

"  I  am  no  more  tired,"  said  Annice,  "  than  the  other 
girls  in  your  shop.  There  is  no  more  danger  of  my  being 
ill." 

Mr.  Gordon  winced.     The  girl  grew  pale. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said. 

"  We  are  not  allowed  to,"  answered  his  daughter.  "  The 
floor-walker  has  orders  to  report  us  if  we  do.  I  have 
worked  here  for  two  weeks.  I  am  earning  two  dollars  a 
week.  I  am  trying  the  experiment  of  living  on  that 
money  as  other  girls  are  obliged  to  do.  The  cash-girls," 
she  added  defiantly,  "  have  only  a  dollar,  and  some  of  them 
are  without  homes." 

Mr.  Gordon  turned  and  walked  away,  slowly,  with  drag- 
ging steps,  as  if  each  movement  gave  him  pain.  For  the 
first  time  a  dim  realization  of  what  these  facts  might  mean 
entered  his  mind  as  he  saw  his  own  daughter  behind  the 
counter.  Annice  watched  him  with  remorseful  eyes. 
The  hard  look  faded  from  her  face,  and  her  lips  quivered 
with  their  old  expression  of  pity.  She  had  not  been  just. 
She  had  believed  an  outsider's  story  about  her  father.  She 
had  been  self-righteous  and  repellent  and  cold.  She  was 
sorry,  but  it  was  too  late.  No,  it  was  not  too  late.  As 
she  stood  with  her  hand  moving  irresolutely  on  the  counter, 
the  face  of  the  old  duty  thrust  itself  imperatively  through 
the  mist  of  the  new.  She  had  wandered  from  her  path. 
She  had  deserted  the  nearer  duty  for  the  more  remote,  glad 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  153 

of  an  excuse  to  escape  a  task  she  dreaded.  She  had  been 
faithless  to  her  mother's  charge.  Sternly  her  Puritan  con- 
science arraigned  her,  tried  her,  found  her  guilty.  Annice 
drew  a  great  sigh,  and  sentenced  herself  to  the  fulfilment 
of  her  abandoned  purpose.  She  would  go  home  again. 

Her  way  of  cutting  the  new  web  of  responsibilities  she 
had  woven  round  herself  was  characteristic.  It  was  half- 
past  five.  The  shop  would  close  soon.  She  took  her 
hat  and  walked  in  great  simplicity  toward  the  door.  Out 
on  the  street  she  did  not  turn  toward  the  Merton  Home, 
but  walked  down  Dowden  Avenue,  toward  South  Win- 
throp. 

u  I  can  send  for  my  things,"  she  said.  "  And  I  will 
write  to  Smith's." 

The  relief  of  fresh  air  and  the  sight  of  passing  faces  was 
inexpressible.  Human  life  touched  her,  touched  her  on 
every  side.  One  little  child  looked  up  at  her  and  smiled. 
Annice  smiled  radiantly  back.  The  baby  had  no  responsi- 
bilities, no  problems.  Standing  on  the  bridge  she  watched 
the  harbour,  troubled  by  its  many  crafts,  with  a  longing  to 
go  out  to  some  tall-masted  ship  and  escape  over  the  blue 
water.  Her  face  was  full  of  mournful  pity  for  everybody, 
herself  included.  Suddenly  turning,  she  met  Henry 
Worthington.  He  was  waiting  for  a  car  on  his  way 
home. 

"  I  was  sorry  not  to  see  you  this  afternoon,"  he  said, 
taking  off  his  hat.  "  I  was  at  Smith's  with  a  new  list  of 
questions." 

She  was  dumb,  looking  up  at  him  with  tragic  eyes. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  Can  I  be  of  service  in 
any  way  ?  You  look  troubled." 

"It  isn't  anything,"  said  Annice,  speaking  slowly  in  her 
effort  at  self-control,  "  that  anybody  can  help." 

He  looked  down  at  her,  as  his  father  had  looked  at  him 
in  his  babyhood,  with  a  passionate  wish  to  protect. 

"  I  must  go  on,"  said  Annice ;  and  she  left  him.  He 
looked  so  strong  and  big  and  honest  that  she  had  to  fight 


154  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

down  a  temptation  to  confess  to  him  her  masquerading,  to 
appeal  to  his  judgment  for  help  in  her  perplexity.  He 
gazed  after  her  with  a  sense  of  personal  hurt  in  his  eyes. 
Why  should  burdens  always  fall  on  the  shoulders  least 
able  to  bear  them  ?  Where  was  she  going  ?  Who  took 
care  of  her.  He  was  baffled,  angry,  helpless. 

And  this  mysterious  girl,  with  the  ugly  blue  waist,  the 
pretty  head  with  its  spirited  carriage,  the  face  that  changed 
and  glowed  with  beauty  that  came  like  a  flame  and  died  out 
like  a  flame,  crossed  the  bridge  and  left  him  among  the 
passing  people,  alone. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

HAT  winter  seemed  interminable  to 
Alfred  Worthington.  To  Henry  it 
was  swift  and  short.  The  long,  clear 
evenings  of  December  and  the  bluster- 
ing days  of  January  failed  to  afford 
the  younger  man  half  time  enough  for 
his  work.  There  were  the  classes  to 
prepare  for,  old  information  had  to  be  sifted  and  retested 
for  this  new  use  of  teaching,  whose  demands  were  so  much 
more  stringent  than  those  of  mere  study.  There  was  all 
the  work  of  laborious  investigation  in  North  Winthrop, 
where  he  took  notes  from  the  answers  given  him  by  grimy- 
faced  workmen  in  factories,  pale  book-keepers  in  shops, 
unemployed  men  and  women  in  agencies.  These  over- 
crowded hours  gave  to  the  older  man  long  stretches  of 
unoccupied  time,  when  he  walked  up  and  down  in  his  labora- 
tory, trying  to  drive  his  mind  back  to  its  proper  object  of 
pursuit ;  or  when  he  sat  in  the  library  window,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  that  bit  of  high  stone  wall  with  its  faint  covering 
of  green,  his  thoughts  straying  out  beyond  the  clear  spaces 
in  the  rifted  clouds  of  the  western  sky.  His  science  suf- 
fered. For  the  first  time  the  students  grumbled  that 
Worthington's  work  was  not  interesting.  A  note  of 
warning  was  sounded  by  the  seniors  to  the  lower  classes, 
that  they  had  better  not  take  biology  after  all. 

»55 


156  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

The  hurt  to  the  father  in  this  shadowing  of  the  friend- 
ship between  him  and  his  son  was  greater  than  the  hurt  to 
the  boy.  Since  that  conversation  in  the  autumn  outside 
of  Benedict  Warren's  door  they  had  not  once  spoken  of 
the  disputed  question.  Yet  they  had  with  them  always 
throughout  the  winter  a  consciousness  that  there  was  one 
subject  of  conversation  that  was  to  be  avoided.  They  had 
dined  together,  studied  side  by  side  in  the  library  in  the 
evenings,  had  sometimes  walked  together  as  of  old. 
Naturally  every  topic  that  they  touched  in  conversation 
led  up  to  the  one  they  were  trying  to  escape.  If  they 
spoke  of  a  new  cover  for  the  library  table,  thought  drifted 
to  the  shops,  and  the  shops  suggested  Mr.  Gordon.  If 
the  professor  alluded  to  his  microscope,  the  idea  of  the 
possible  new  outfit  that  Gordon's  gift  would  mean  for  his 
laboratory  intruded  itself  between  them.  The  very  bread 
they  ate  suggested  the  wheat  trust  and  other  industrial 
abuses.  Of  Henry's  present  work  of  investigation  the 
father  knew  nothing,  though  from  the  books  and  pamphlets 
left  on  the  library  table,  and  from  Henry's  occasional 
mention,  when  talking  with  other  people,  of  labour-leaders, 
business-men,  charity-workers,  the  professor  suspected 
that  his  son  was  working  steadily  on  practical  social 
problems.  He  waited  with  passionate  patience  for  a  sign 
of  change,  for  the  restoration  of  the  old  confidence.  But 
Henry  toiled  on  in  silence.  Often,  catching  the  look  of 
sadness  in  his  father's  face,  he  would  try  to  rouse  his 
slowly  subsiding  remorse.  He  had  to  make  an  effort  to 
remember  that  which  was  insistent  anguish  for  the  older 
man.  The  father,  watching  Henry's  growing  firmness  of 
expression,  tried  to  feel  less,  not  more. 

Benedict  Warren  was  vaguely  uneasy.  He  saw  that  the 
wrinkles  between  his  friend's  eyebrows  were  slowly  deep- 
ening. He  was  conscious  of  a  certain  restraint  now  in 
Alfred  Worthington's  manner.  Ulysses  was  restless  now- 
adays when  he  was  present  at  a  meeting  of  the  two  friends, 
and  Ulysses'  sensitive  nature  was  a  mirror  where  his 


HENRY    WORTHINGTON  157 

master's  moods  were  reflected.  No  further  mention  of 
Henry  had  been  made,  but  Benedict  Warren  knew.  The 
thought  of  his  old  resolution  to  wrestle  with  Henry  had 
been  rankling  in  his  mind  all  winter,  only,  it  was  hard  to 
convince  himself  that  the  matter  was  important  enough 
for  speech.  One  afternoon  Warren  entered  the  library  at 
Lancaster  Place.  There  was  a  wintry  red  upon  his  cheeks, 
and  he  was  blowing  his  fingers  to  make  them  warm. 
Ulysses  was  at  his  heels.  The  dog  was  walking  on  three 
legs,  having  held  up  one  foot  to  protect  it  from  the  cold  of 
the  pavement.  Alfred  Worthington  rose  to  meet  his 
guest. 

"  What  are  you  reading  ? "  asked  Benedict  Warren, 
picking  up  the  pamphlet  that  his  friend  had  dropped,  and 
settling  down  comfortably  into  a  chair.  The  professor 
looked  ashamed. 

u  The  Need  of  a  Consumer's  League  in  ff^intbropj  by  Henry 
Worthington"  read  the  guest,  slowly.  Then  he  slapped 
the  pamphlet  on  his  knee. 

" 1  say,  Worthington,  what's  that  cub  of  yours  up  to, 
anyhow  ? " 

Worthington  shook  his  head  in  silence. 

"  I  hear  about  him,"  continued  Benedict  Warren,  u  all 
over  town.  He's  putting  his  nose  into  everything.  He's 
asked  more  questions  in  this  city  this  winter  than  have 
ever  been  asked  here  before.  I  can't  get  on  to  his  idea." 

"  I  wish  that  he  had  studied  biology  or  chemistry,"  said 
the  professor,  "and  had  left  economics  alone.  It  is  no 
science,  or  it  is  a  mongrel  science  at  its  best.  At  its 
worst  — "  he  pointed  to  a  pile  of  Labour  Bureau  reports 
and  Charity  Organization  circulars  on  the  table,  "  there's 
no  telling  how  many  kinds  of  fruitless  activity  it  may 
lead  to." 

The  scholar's  fastidiousness,  the  sense  of  holding  him- 
self aloof  from  what  he  considered  common  and  vulgar 
ways  of  thinking,  showed  in  his  face.  Benedict  Warren's 
eyes  betrayed  the  admiration  that  he  usually  managed  to 


158  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

conceal.  Alfred's  fine  reserve  in  thought  and  action, 
that  long  waiting,  in  work  that  meant  constant  alertness, 
patience,  control,  for  the  finer  solutions  of  life's  problems 
—  this  had  held  constant  for  all  these  years  the  loyalty  and 
the  affection  of  the  intellectual  vagrant. 

u  Oh,  come  now  !  "  remonstrated  Warren.  "  You  can't 
complain  that  the  boy  has  neglected  his  work.  He's  cut 
a  broad  swath  here  this  winter.  They  are  all  singing  his 
praises,  from  the  president  down  to  the  boys  in  his  classes." 

"  Is  it  so  ?  "  asked  the  professor,  in  a  voice  whose  joy 
trembled  through  assumed  indifference. 

"And  it  isn't  so  very  long,"  observed  Benedict  Warren, 
crossing  his  legs  and  making  himself  comfortable  by  the 
fire,  "  since  you,  too,  wanted  to  know  it  all  and  do  it  all 
yourself,  Worthington.  I  can  remember  your  sitting  on 
the  foot  of  my  bed  in  Mather  Hall  at  midnight  and  telling 
me,  when  I  wanted  to  go  to  sleep,  that  you  thought  the 
whole  sum  of  human  knowledge  could  be  acquired  in  a 
lifetime  by  a  man  who  gave  his  mind  to  it.  The  desire 
for  omniscience  is  a  disease  of  youth,  like  measles.  That 
young  one  will  get  over  his  wandering  round  and  will 
settle  down  some  day." 

Alfred  Worthington  had  thrown  his  head  back  in  his 
chair,  and  he  was  laughing  more  heartily  than  he  had 
laughed  for  many  weeks. 

u  Now  I  should  be  content,"  he  said,  "  if  I  should  find 
out  the  real  significance  of  the  smallest  specimen  among 
my  laboratory  slides." 

The  clock  on  the  mantel  struck  three.  Benedict  War- 
ren looked  anxiously  round  the  room. 

"  How  does  it  happen  that  you  are  not  at  work  ? "  he 
asked.  "  This  is  the  third  time  I  have  found  you  here  in 
the  afternoon  lately.  You  always  used  to  be  in  your 
laboratory." 

The  professor  rested  his  chin  on  the  palm  of  his  hand 
and  looked  toward  his  friend. 

11  Tired,"  he  answered  briefly. 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  159 

Benedict  Warren  nerved  himself  to  an  effort.  He  tried 
to  speak  with  an  unconscious  air. 

"  I  can  remember  the  time,"  he  remarked,  "  when  you 
worked  at  your  microscope  in  your  laboratory  and  lived  on 
bread  and  milk,  thinking  out  some  fool  thing,  until  you 
got  into  a  state  of  exhaustion  and  fainted  away  one  day. 
You  don't  do  that  way  now.  You  are  not  letting  your 
work  fall  off,  are  you,  Worthington  ?  " 

His  mighty  exertion  was  ill  rewarded.  He  almost  blushed 
over  the  shout  that  came  from  the  professor's  chair.  Al- 
fred Worthington  laughed  all  the  more  heartily  because  he 
was  weary  and  unnerved.  Two  tears,  fruits  of  unwonted 
mirth,  stood  in  his  eyes. 

"  It  takes  a  man  as  lazy  as  you  are,  Warren,"  he 
observed,  "  to  prod  up  hard-working  creatures  like  myself. 
Go  on !  You  never  did  an  honest  day's  work  in  your  life. 
You  ought  to  be  able  to  preach." 

The  two  friends  became  reconciled  over  a  game  of  chess. 
It  lasted  so  long  that  Henry  had  to  eat  his  dinner  alone, 
for  the  combatants  did  not  dine  until  half-past  eight,  when 
Benedict  Warren  was  checkmated.  After  dinner  they 
talked  for  two  hours  over  the  library  fire,  and  Henry,  in 
his  room  above,  where  he  was  not  quite  warm  enough, 
suffered  a  feeling  of  neglect  at  being  left  out.  Sounds  of 
merriment  floated  up  from  the  room  below. 

"  They  might  at  least  let  a  man  study,"  said  Henry, 
bending  his  head  nearer  to  the  student  lamp,  over  the 
closely  printed  pages  of  Bohm-Bawerk. 

Henry's  university  record  that  winter  was  fine  enough 
to  satisfy  even  his  father's  standard.  His  father  was  only 
half  conscious  of  this.  Disapproving  bitterly  of  this  new 
side-issue  in  Henry's  effort,  he  could  not  help  thinking 
that,  in  his  academic  work,  Henry  was  doing  less  than  his 
best.  To  do  less  than  one's  best  meant  to  Alfred  Wor- 
thington failure.  He  could  not  see  that  the  new  human 
interest  meant  added  power  for  his  son.  Henry  exerted  a 
peculiar  influence  over  his  students.  The  secret  of  it 


160  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

was  hard  to  detect.  He  did  not  preach.  He  did  not  dog- 
matize. When  they  asked  him  questions  he  sometimes 
answered.  Sometimes  he  smiled  and  said  :  "  That  is  inter- 
esting. Find  out."  Contact  with  him  meant  for  them  a 
compelling  touch,  calling  forth  power.  Like  steady  flame 
in  the  boy's  heart  burned  on  the  desire  to  rouse  to  finer 
intellectual  life  these  sons  of  merchants  and  of  easy-going 
professional  men.  The  students  were  so  well-fed,  com- 
fortable, muscular.  Henry  sometimes  grasped  the  rounds 
of  his  chair  in  class  with  a  strength  that  threatened  to 
break  the  wooden  rods.  How  could  he  waken  these  men 
to  finer  thought  and  feeling  ? 

Slowly,  and  with  pain,  he  cut  his  way  through  meshes 
of  doubt  in  regard  to  his  practical  work  in  North  Winthrop. 
Coming  home  one  night  after  a  slight  fall  of  damp,  cling- 
ing snow  that  gave  fences,  trees,  and  lawns  an  unreal 
beauty,  and,  with  soft  gleams  of  light  from  passing  car  or 
uncurtained  window,  made  the  whole  world  seem  false  and 
specious,  he  asked  himself  sharply  why  he  was  doing  it  all. 
Was  it  not  a  false  quest  anyway  ?  Was  it  vanity  or 
obstinacy  that  goaded  him  on  ?  Did  he  wish  to  pose  as 
more  conscientious  and  more  tender-hearted  than  other 
men  ?  He  turned  his  back  on  the  unreal  world  of  rose- 
colour  and  white,  stamped  the  snow  from  his  feet,  and 
entered  the  hall.  There  was  his  father  at  work.  Coming 
up  behind  him,  Henry  saw  that  the  professor  was  poring 
with  puzzled  eyes  over  a  printed  report  of  a  committee 
that  had  been  investigating  the  sweating  system.  He 
hurriedly  concealed  the  pamphlet  under  a  text-book  when 
he  perceived  that  his  son  was-  near.  Henry's  face  was 
working  as  he  looked  down  at  his  father.  Was  there  not 
a  larger  sprinkling  of  gray  in  the  smooth  dark  hair  than 
there  had  been  ?  If  there  were  any  real  occasion  for  tender- 
heartedness was  it  not  here  ?  What  were  the  dictates  of 
his  conscience  as  compared  with  his  father's  peace  of 
mind  ?  He  started  to  speak,  checked  himself,  then  sat 
down  to  his  books. 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  161 

Baser  considerations  became  tempters  for  him.  One 
sharp  winter  afternoon,  as  he  passed  the  establishment 
of  the  Hon.  D wight  B.  Sanford,  Winthrop's  wealthiest 
trustee,  the  iron  gate  that  guarded  the  drive  swung  open,  and 
down  the  street  flashed  a  splendid  equipage.  The  owner  sat 
erect  amid  the  splendours  of  polished  wood,  priceless  robes, 
and  liveried  servants.  That,  after  all,  Henry  reflected, 
was  success.  What  was  he  doing,  except  harm,  with  all 
his  quixotic  effort?  The  slow  trotting  of  gentle-footed 
horses,  soft  cushions,  a  mansion  like  that  to  leave  behind 
when  one  took  one's  drive  —  these  things  were  tangible 
results  of  endeavour.  Why  not  pander  to  owners  of  these 
things?  Why  not  try  to  find  some  way  of  acquiring  the 
fat  rewards  of  this  world  ?  Success  for  him  was  to  be 
such  a  lean  and  hungry  thing.  Then  he  squared  his 
shoulders,  ashamed  of  his  wandering  thoughts,  and  drew 
in  a  great  breath  of  strong,  pure,  winter  air.  His  footsteps 
rang  out  on  the  cold  flagstones.  Sunshine  like  that  of 
this  January  day  always  conquers  the  world  for  one.  He 
had  put  his  hand  to  the  plough.  He  could  not  turn  back. 

Every  misgiving,  as  he  reasoned  it  away,  drove  him 
farther  and  farther  in  the  path  that  he  had  chosen.  He 
was  his  father's  son,  with  a  trained  intellectual  conscience, 
and,  like  Alfred  Worthington,  was  slow  to  conclude,  but 
steady  in  conviction.  He  mastered  his  grievance  about 
his  father's  neglect,  ceasing  to  ask  the  old  assurance  that  his 
sense  of  right  was  his  father's  too.  No  outside  influence 
could  help,  he  said  to  himself.  He  must  be  his  own  con- 
viction embodied.  He  must  make  true  for  the  world  the 
truth  that  he  wished  to  believe. 

The  mid-year  tragedy  was  at  hand  in  Winthrop:  it 
was  examination-time.  An  unnatural  hush  lay  over  the 
campus.  Crowds  of  anxious  faces  gathered  under  a  sky 
of  unfeeling  blue.  Henry's  soul  was  shaken  to  its  very 
foundations.  Sitting  in  judgment  on  these  examination 
papers,  he  was  compelled  to  decide  whether  honour  or  dis- 
grace should  be  the  verdict.  His  aye  or  no  might  deprive 


1 62  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

a  senior  of  a  degree !  For  two  days  after  the  test  Henry 
stayed  in  his  own  den  upstairs.  The  floor  was  covered 
with  manuscript.  The  table,  sole  object  of  furniture  in 
the  room,  except  two  hard  chairs,  supported  a  pile  of 
blue-books.  He  read  until  his  eyes  were  dazed.  Reread- 
ing caused  only  more  complete  bewilderment.  Snaky  lines 
of  meaningless  words  writhed  across  page  after  page.  The 
athletic  youth  with  shaggy  hair  showed  a  sad  academic 
record.  The  young  professor  sat  at  the  table,  both  hands 
supporting  his  head,  glancing  up  now  and  then  at  the  ceil- 
ing as  if  praying  for  help.  This  fine  mental  hair-splitting 
had  to  decide  the  fate  of  his  students,  his  students  !  The 
responsibility  of  separating  the  sheep  from  the  goats  was  too 
heavy  for  mortal  shoulders.  Was  God  himself  absolutely 
sure  of  his  judgments  ? 

At  the  end  of  the  second  day  Henry  emerged,  with 
bloodshot  eyes,  and  a  fine  wrinkle  between  his  eyebrows. 
He  strode  down  Wiclif  Street  with  emphatic  steps,  entered 
the  secretary's  office,  an  ivy-covered  building  in  the  shelter 
of  Mather  Hall,  and  resolutely  laid  before  him  the  brief  list 
of  the  condemned.  The  gray-haired  man  looked  up  and 
smiled  as  Henry's  voice  broke  over  his  brief  remark, 
"Conditioned  students  in  Economics  9  and  13." 

"  They  get  more  hardened  to  it  as  the  years  go  on," 
reflected  the  secretary. 

Henry  started  for  a  walk  across  the  river.  Half-way 
over  the  bridge  he  met  two  of  his  victims,  sauntering  along 
with  their  hands  in  their  pockets.  The  young  professor 
bowed  with  a  guilty  and  apologetic  air.  He  felt  like  a 
criminal.  Pacing  up  and  down  the  bridge,  he  watched  the 
noiseless  water  of  the  river,  moving,  full  of  dark  shadows, 
toward  the  sea.  A  frosty  red  sunset  gleamed  behind  the 
spires  of  the  city,  and  electric  cars  made  long  lines  of  light. 
Henry  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  to  warm  his  chilled 
fingers.  The  peace  of  final  decision  settled  upon  him  at 
last.  In  an  institution  whose  standard  was  fine  effort  and 
strenuous  thought,  condemnation  of  the  lazy  was  just  and 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  163 

right.  It  was  right,  remembering  what  the  stamp  of 
Winthrop  should  mean  to  the  world,  even  to  draw  visible 
lines  between  the  stupid  and  those  intellectually  alert. 
Why  did  he  take  it  all  so  personally  ?  he  asked  himself. 
Other  people  did  not.  It  was  because  they  belonged  to 
him,  those  students.  They  filled  up,  in  a  measure,  the 
growing  loneliness  of  his  life.  His  father  was  casting  him 
out  into  the  cold.  There  was  human  interest  in  those 
young  faces  in  his  class-room.  There  was  human  interest 
in  the  smoky  streets  of  North  Winthrop,  where  he  had 
shaken  the  grimy  hands  of  working-men.  He  turned  to 
face  the  factory-town.  Into  his  mind  floated  the  delicate 
shadow  of  a  girl's  face.  It  had  haunted  him  all  winter 
with  its  look  of  appeal,  and  this  spot  upon  the  bridge 
brought  it  back  more  vividly  than  ever.  Yes,  there  in 
North  Winthrop  there  was  work  to  do,  and  in  South 
Winthrop  there  was  work  to  do.  He  turned  and  walked 
toward  the  university,  longing  for  the  sight  of  the  familiar 
buildings.  His  students,  his  working-men,  his  alma  mater, 
came  to  him  as  real  persons,  the  touch  of  whose  hands  had 
been  warm  upon  his.  The  face  that  was  turned  toward 
the  university  city  was  wistful,  sympathetic,  hungry.  His 
mother's  not-fully-returned  love  had  been  working  all  his 
life  in  his  veins,  for  Henry  was  all  his  father  and  all  his 
mother  too. 

He  walked  swiftly  back  across  the  common  toward  the 
buildings  that  meant  so  large  a  part  of  life  to  him :  the 
library,  with  green  moss  upon  its  gray  stones;  the  great 
brown-stone  gateway  with  its  exquisite  carving;  Quincy 
Hall,  with  snow  still  clinging  to  its  roof.  The  young 
man's  soul  yearned  toward  the  rest  and  the  safety  of  those 
encompassing  walls.  There  they  stood,  line  upon  line, 
rampart  upon  rampart,  like  the  mountains  about  Jerusalem, 
an  evidence  of  things  assured.  Oh,  he  had  made  mistakes, 
he  had  gone  astray,  he  had  missed  the  clew,  yet  the  truth 
and  the  right  did  exist,  and  these  walls  were  a  witness  to 
it.  They  stood  for  a  law,  for  a  coherence  in  things,  the 


164  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

very  search  for  which  was  life  enough.  Alma  mater!  he 
could  have  curled  up  in  her  arms  like  a  tired  child.  Sud- 
denly he  shivered.  From  a  gateway  near  came  sounds  of 
revelry  that  was  not  innocent.  Three  students,  walking 
unsteadily,  were  singing  snatches  of  an  indecent  drinking 
song.  He  walked  away.  From  Quincy  Hall  a  different 
strain  of  music  overtook  him.  Through  the  open  windows 
floated  out,  in  deep  melody,  a  chorus  of  students'  voices, 
lifting  the  great  university-song.  Henry  took  off  his  hat, 
alone  in  the  moonlight,  and  waited  until  the  last  note  had 
died  away. 

Ideals  are  easy  to  hold  fast  in  the  moonlight,  to  the 
sound  of  music.  Benedict  Warren,  the  day  after  Henry's 
walk,  shook  the  young  man's  resolution  to  its  very  roots. 
Alfred  Worthington's  friend  had  at  last  taken  up  the 
cudgels  in  his  defence.  He  had  made  cunning  plans  to 
find  Henry  alone,  by  accident.  What  he  had  to  say  he 
would  say  with  an  incidental  air,  advising  him  in  an  off- 
hand manner,  as  if  the  question  were  hardly  worthy  of 
thought  on  his  side.  For  this  purpose  he  lurked  for  sev- 
eral days  about  the  common  and  Wiclif  Street,  watching 
for  Henry.  Finding  this  plan  of  no  avail,  he  went  one 
day  to  Lancaster  Place,  Ulysses  at  his  heels.  He  had 
chosen  an  hour  when  he  knew  that  the  professor  was  in 
his  class-room.  Henry  invited  him  to  a  seat  in  the  library. 
To  the  boy's  surprise  and  consternation  Mr.  Warren  ac- 
cepted. To  Henry's  further  dismay  he  began  talking  of 
economics. 

It  was  a  fool  subject,  he  observed,  watching  Henry 
from  the  corner  of  his  eye.  He  did  not  wish  to  say 
anything  unpleasant,  but  to  him  it  seemed  that  people 
must  be  hard  up  for  something  to  study  when  they  took 
to  reducing  common-sense  matters  of  concrete  value  into 
abstractions  that  had  no  corresponding  realities.  Suddenly 
he  turned  from  his  vague  generalizations  and  faced  the 
young  man. 

"Look  here,  Henry,"  he  said,  "you're  making  a  con- 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  165 

founded  row,  from  what  I've  heard,  about  something  that 
isn't  worth  snapping  your  fingers  over.  I  believe  you  are 
trying  to  upset  retail  business  in  the  city,  and  to  keep  the 
institution  "  —  Warren  pointed  one  lean  finger  in  the  direc- 
tion where  its  buildings  stood,  "  from  getting  funds.  You'll 
find  out  some  day  that  you  can't  run  the  whole  business. 
Some  things  you  can't  help  and  you  can't  hinder.  Hold 
your  tongue  — "  the  visitor's  face  gleamed  with  that  rare 
smile  of  his  —  "  hold  your  tongue,  and  it  will  all  come 
right  in  the  fall.  What  does  political  economy  amount  to 
anyway  ?  I  get  all  mine  from  Ulysses." 

The  great  dog  beat  the  floor  with  his  tail  in  recognition 
of  his  honourable  mention.  Henry  sat  stiffly  upright  in 
his  chair.  He  was  angry. 

"  Where  did  you  get  your  information  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  From  you  and  your  father  and  the  people  around  town," 
answered  Warren,  with  a  drawl. 

u  I'm  doing  nothing,"  said  the  young  economist,  u  except 
to  ask  that  the  money  we  take  shall  be  honest  money." 

w  There  isn't  any  such  thing  as  honest  money,"  retorted 
Mr.  Warren.  "Where  can  you  draw  the  line  between 
Gordon's  gift  —  I  believe  that  was  what  roused  you  up  — 
and  other  gifts  ?  Trade  is  trade,  and  it  is  all  pretty  much 
alike.  Your  hair-splitting  considerations  don't  work  in 
the  world  of  buying  and  selling." 

Henry  was  silent  for  a  long  time.  Mr.  Warren,  appar- 
ently studying  the  wall-paper,  watched  with  curiosity  the 
changes  in  his  companion's  face. 

"  Maybe  you  are  right,"  Henry  said  slowly.  u  That  is 
only  proof  to  me  that  it  is  time  for  us  to  begin  to  think 
about  these  things.  It  is  a  chance  to  challenge  an  abuse 
that  never  has  been  challenged.  It  may  lead  to  thought 
that  will  result  in  some  slight  decrease  of  the  weight  of 
human  misery.  It  seems  to  me  that  my  demand  is  per- 
fectly sane  and  reasonable.  It  is  only  this :  that  donors 
of  gifts  to  institutions  like  this  shall  have  clean  hands. 
That  means  simply,  honesty  in  business,  and  fair  play  to 


1 66  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

the  human  beings  in  their  employ.  I  do  not  agree  with 
you.  I  think  that  it  is  possible  to  draw  the  line." 

A  gleam  of  unwilling  admiration  came  from  Benedict 
Warren's  eyes.  He  tried  another  scheme. 

"  Have  you  thought  about  your  father  ?  "  he  asked.  "  It 
wouldn't  matter  if  it  weren't  for  him,  but  I  think  that  this 
is  using  him  all  up.  Do  you  know  what  happened  the 
other  day  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Henry. 

"  One  of  his  old  fainting  spells  came  on.  It's  a  long 
time  since  he's  had  one.  We  had  been  taking  a  walk,  and 
I  managed  to  get  him  into  the  den.  I  don't  know  whether 
it's  your  fault,  but  I  advise  you  to  take  in  sail  a  little." 

"  I'm  doing  nothing,"  said  Henry,  proudly,  "  but  what  my 
conscience  demands."  Mr.  Warren  rose  to  his  feet  with 
a  jerk.  Even  Ulysses  had  never  seen  him  move  so  rapidly. 

"  Confound  your  conscience  !  "  he  said,  stalking  away. 
"  I  presume  you  think  that  it's  a  thing  of  vast  importance. 
I  tell  you  it's  of  mighty  little  account,  compared  with  your 
father's  health.  Some  people  think  their  souls  vastly  more 
important  than  they  are." 

Henry  folded  his  arms  upon  the  table,  and  bowed  his 
head  upon  them  in  silent  misery. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

R.  GORDON  and  his  daughter  were 
very  good  to  each  other  that  winter. 
As  they  shared  their  Sunday  dinner  of 
cold  roast  turkey,  or  sat  side  by  side  in 
the  parlour  through  the  evening  in  com- 
panion plush  chairs,  they  watched  each 
other  with  uneasy  eyes,  eyes  that  asked 
nothing,  save  knowledge  of  the  full  measure  of  duty  to 
be  done  under  present  circumstances.  Mouth  and  chin 
answered  the  questioning  eyes  with  determination  to  per- 
form the  whole.  The  grim  Covenanter  faces  on  the  wall, 
looking  down  on  the  gray  head  and  the  brown  one  under 
the  piano  lamp,  seemed  to  be  coming  to  life  again. 
Annice,  unknown  to  herself,  was  at  last  acquiring  the 
family  expression. 

She  did  her  duty,  scrupulously,  untiringly.  Antigone 
was  not  more  firmly  resolved.  No  matter  how  early  her 
father  breakfasted,  she  was  there,  bravely  trying  to  smile  at 
him  from  behind  the  monumental  coffee-pot.  She  ordered 
the  meals,  each  time  indirectly  asking  the  cook  what  to 
order,  and  then  performing  her  part  with  dignity  which 
imposed  entirely  on  that  warm-hearted  Irishwoman.  It 
did  beat  all,  she  said,  to  see  what  a  head  Miss  Annice  had 
for  housekeeping.  Annice  supervised  the  arrangement  of 
the  rooms*  and  replenished  the  linen  closet.  Her  father's 

167 


1 68  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

heart  swelled  with  pride  when  he  saw  her  hemstitching  a 
towel.  She  attended  to  her  father's  collars,  and  was  as 
faithful  in  remembering  his  favourite  pickles  as  he  was  in 
remembering,  on  Sunday,  which  part  of  the  turkey  she  liked. 
In  the  evenings  the  girl  was  always  ready,  in  her  pretty 
gowns  of  pale  summer  colours,  or  of  vivid  scarlet  —  they 
were  equally  becoming  —  to  entertain  her  father.  His 
abstract  idea  of  a  daughter  in  the  home  could  not  have 
been  better  exemplified. 

Yet  he  missed  something.  On  the  afternoon  of  her 
return  Annice  had  apologized  for  her  rash  words  at  Smith's. 
She  had  been  meek,  subdued,  dutiful.  Still  he  had  con- 
stantly the  old  feeling  that  he  had  had  in  regard  to  her 
mother.  Something  eluded  him.  He  dictated  her  walks, 
her  drives,  the  hour  for  her  retiring,  and  her  attendance  at 
church ;  but  he  wanted  to  know  what  she  was  thinking 
about  when  she  looked  away  over  the  marshes  where  pale 
dead  grass  stood  motionless  above  the  snow.  He  was 
irritated  because  he  could  not  control  both  her  feelings  and 
her  thoughts. 

He  had  pardoned  her.  The  somewhat  explosive  expres- 
sion of  this  had  been  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  his  histri- 
onic paternity.  For  days  afterward  he  had  worn  that 
slightly  hurt,  but  magnanimous,  expression  that  always 
came  to  his  face  when  he  was  conscious  of  having  done 
somebody  wrong.  He  invariably  forgave  his  victims. 
Looking  across  his  lawn  late  that  afternoon  of  his  visit 
at  Smith's  he  had  seen  Annice  coming  slowly  up  the 
walk  in  the  red-gold  haze  of  an  Indian  summer  sunset, 
Annice,  tired  and  dejected,  her  hair  straying  about  her  face, 
her  worn  ulster  only  half  concealing  her  limp  black  gown. 
He  had  gone  out  to  meet  her,  saying  to  himself,  "  And 
his  father  saw  him  far  ofF,"  and  trying  to  think  whether 
or  not  this  line  formed  part  of  the  parable  of  the  prodigal 
son. 

She  had  walked  straight  to  him  and  had  looked  up  into 
his  face  as  he  stood  on  the  steps  above  her.  It  was  one 


HENRY   WORTH INGTON  169 

of  the  minutes  when  he  was  half  afraid  of  her,  because 
her  eyes  looked  so  much  like  the  eyes  of  his  mother. 

"  I  have  come  to  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  her  chin 
quivering  in  strong  emotion,  "for  —  this  afternoon.  I 
did  not  mean,"  she  hesitated,  "  to  say  it  that  way." 

He  had  waited,  his  hand  half  stretched  out  as  if  to  give 
her  his  blessing.  To  the  cook  who  had  watched  from  the 
conservatory  window  it  had  been  a  minute  of  intense 
dramatic  interest,  and  not  to  the  cook  alone.  Further 
expression  of  penitence  for  the  sin  of  leaving  her  father's 
house  in  that  way  had  not  come,  and  yet  he  had  forgiven 
her.  He  had  taken  his  daughter's  hand,  and  had  led  her 
into  her  deserted  home.  A  sense  of  her  misdeeds  would 
come  to  her  in  time. 

It  had  not  come.  The  subtle  reminders  that  her  father 
had  given  her  had  passed  unheeded.  He  had  told  stories  of 
erring  youth  and  of  forgiving  parents.  Mute  indifference, 
or  even  a  glance  of  levity,  had  been  his  reward.  At  prayers 
one  morning  he  had  read  the  commandments,  pausing  over, 
"  Honour  thy  father  and  thy  mother,  that  thy  days  may  be 
long  in  the  land."  As  Annice  had  risen  from  her  knees 
he  had  been  shocked  to  see  a  faint  smile  flicker  over  her 
face.  He  had  expected  something  else. 

"  My  days  are  very  long  now,"  Annice  was  saying  to 
herself,  "quite  long  enough." 

All  winter  he  was  constantly  active  in  making  plans  for 
her  pleasure.  Dimly,  from  a  long  distance,  he  saw  himself 
performing  this  and  that  act  in  the  character  of  grieved  and 
loving  father.  He  read  aloud  to  her  in  the  evenings.  He 
was  fond  of  reading  aloud,  though  impatient  and  restless  if 
obliged  to  listen  to  any  one  else.  Night  after  night  he 
exercised  this  cruellest  form  of  human  tyranny  upon  his 
patient  daughter.  Sitting  at  one  side  of  the  marble-topped 
table,  he  rolled  out  in  his  full,  insistent  voice,  that  knew 
no  variation,  no  inflection,  page  after  page  of  Samuel 
Smiles's  Self-Help^  of  the  lives  of  Lincoln  and  Grant ;  on 
Sunday,  of  Chalmers's  Sermons.  Annice,  at  the  other  side 


170  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

of  the  table,  busy  with  embroidery  of  white  linen  and  gold- 
coloured  silk,  wove  crooked  patterns  among  the  meshes  of 
flowers,  and  now  and  then,  when  the  misery  was  too  great 
to  bear,  pricked  her  finger  in  order  to  change  the  seat  of 
suffering,  and  left  a  tiny  red  blot  on  the  white.  She  under- 
stood now  the  way  in  which  the  Inquisition  had  tortured 
people  to  death  by  making  water  fall,  drop  after  drop,  upon 
their  heads.  Meanwhile  she  watched  for  the  minutes  when 
her  father's  eyes  were  lifted.  She  always  tried  to  meet 
him  with  an  appreciative  smile. 

Besides  staying  at  home  as  much  as  was  possible,  in 
order  to  keep  his  daughter  from  being  lonely,  Mr.  Gordon 
spent  much  time  in  thinking  out  other  kinds  of  entertain- 
ment for  her.  She  was  young,  he  often  told  her,  and  she 
ought  to  have  amusement.  Just  how  a  suitable  launching 
into  society  was  to  come,  he  did  not  see.  Annice's 
perversity  about  church  work  was  a  direct  barrier.  He 
wondered  fretfully  why  Mrs.  Appleton  showed  no  signs  of 
renewing  the  old  intimacy.  Had  he  not  sent  Annice  to 
the  school  she  had  recommended  ?  Had  she  not,  on  those 
occasional  meetings  with  Annice  in  the  summer,  bestowed 
her  patronage  upon  the  girl  ?  Now  that  his  daughter  had 
come  to  make  Winthrop  her  home,  Mrs.  Appleton  ignored 
her  existence.  He  took  Annice  to  church  with  him  —  she, 
fair  to  look  upon,  with  her  face  shining  out  from  her  dark 
seal  furs ;  he,  in  the  full  glory  of  black  broadcloth  and 
glistening  hat.  It  was  a  pity  that  their  church  was  not 
Mrs.  Appleton's,  he  often  thought.  Annice  was  induced 
as  often  as  was  possible  to  go  driving  with  him  on  the 
boulevard  in  the  afternoons.  He  liked  to  have  people  see 
the  perfect  concord  existing  between  himself  and  his  daugh- 
ter. He  observed  that  at  church  and  on  the  street  they 
attracted  much  attention.  People  looked  at  one  another, 
smiled,  and  whispered  when  they  saw  them.  Mr.  Gordon 
was  deeply  gratified. 

Meanwhile  the  girl  lived  on  in  the  great  house  on  the 
hill,  feeling  that  her  soul  was  frozen,  like  the  frozen  world 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  171 

outside.  Those  endless  days  of  glaring  sunshine  on  white 
snow  seemed  to  belong  to  the  world  of  the  dead  rather  than 
to  the  world  of  the  living.  The  loneliness  of  the  huge 
rooms  was  unendurable.  After  the  bright  school  life  of 
crowded  human  interests,  had  followed  silence  and  a  blank. 
Winter  had  come  to  Winthrop  with  a  severity  unknown 
before,  ushered  in  by  a  storm  that  had  left  a  heavy  drift  of 
unbroken  white  over  the  dreary  marshes,  and  had  brought 
upon  the  beach  driftwood  from  wrecked  ships,  and  stiffened 
bodies  of  drowned  men.  Ships  had  gone  down  in  Winthrop 
harbour  on  the  night  of  the  great  gale.  Annice,  looking 
from  the  window  at  the  world  of  gray,  watched  snowfall 
after  snowfall,  flake  after  flake  on  the  bare  branches  of 
beech  and  maple,  and  on  the  brown  leaves  that  clung  still 
to  the  oaks.  To  the  solitary  and  imprisoned  girl,  it  looked 
as  if  every  trace  of  the  brown  earth  with  its  growing  things 
and  its  warm  human  lives  was  to  be  blotted  out  into  white 
silence. 

The  winds  of  December  and  of  January  beat  on  the 
stunted  hemlocks  and  cedars  that  clung  to  the  rocks. 
Land  and  sea  were  cold  and  stern.  Yet  there  came  days 
when  nature  relented,  days  of  sunshine  and  of  thaw  along 
the  winter  coast.  Then,  when  the  sky  was  blue  behind 
the  evergreens  on  the  cliff",  and  the  water  trickled  slowly 
down  from  melting  ice  between  the  rocks,  Annice  would 
venture  out  to  walk  along  the  shore.  The  relief  of  escape 
from  her  troubled  mind  into  the  beauty  of  the  outside  world 
was  pleasure  that  was  almost  pain.  There  was  peace  in 
the  long  horizon  line  where  sky  and  water  met. 

Sometimes  her  problems  followed  her,  and  darkened  sea 
and  sky.  Then  it  seemed  as  if  the  waves  were  tossing 
ceaselessly  in  trouble ;  and  the  wind-blown  hemlocks  wore 
an  expression  of  agony,  as  if  they  were  feeling  down  between 
the  rocks  for  something  firm  to  cling  to,  something  that 
was  not  there.  The  hoarse  cry  of  the  gulls  and  the  cynic 
cawing  of  the  crows  were  as  an  expression  of  her  own  hurt. 
For  existence  was  to  the  girl  only  pain.  She  had  asked  for 


1 72  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

more  light  on  life,  and  had  received  greater  darkness.  The 
evidence  in  regard  to  her  father's  wrong-doing  had  become, 
through  her  rash  experiment,  convincing,  yet  it  brought  her, 
instead  of  constant  indignation,  a  growing  conviction 
that  her  pity  for  all  the  world  should  not  shut  her  father 
out.  The  hunger  and  thirst  of  her  own  loneliness  made 
her  gentle  in  the  thought  of  the  pathetic  isolation  of  his 
life. 

One  February  day  Annice  sat  in  a  sheltered  cleft  of  the 
rocks,  watching  the  glitter  of  sunshine  on  the  waves.  She 
had  turned  up  the  deep  fur  collar  of  her  coat,  half  conceal- 
ing her  face,  which  was  pink  with  the  cold.  It  was  foolish 
to  sit  there.  She  knew  it,  but  what  did  it  matter  ?  After 
all,  the  sunshine  was  almost  warm.  She  took  off  her  heavy 
gloves  and  spread  her  ringers  out  to  let  it  drive  away  the 
chill.  A  voice  above  her  head  startled  her. 

"  Come  this  way,  Hayes,"  it  said  quickly. 

Fear  sent  scarlet  colour  to  the  girl's  lips  and  cheeks  and 
forehead.  The  voice  stirred  her.  She  did  not  need  to  look 
at  the  two  people  out  on  the  rocks,  near  the  breaking  of 
the  waves.  There  stood  the  young  investigator.  She 
could  see  the  outline  of  his  broad  shoulders  and  strong  pro- 
file against  the  sea.  That  yellow-haired  boy  in  blue  at  his 
side  was  her  Freshman  cousin,  Allan  Hayes.  Annice  did 
not  stop  to  wonder  at  this.  She  was  asking  herself  if  her 
eyes  played  her  false.  Again  and  again  the  outline  of  a 
passing  figure  had  deceived  her,  taking  the  form  of  her 
unknown  friend.  A  great  wave  of  gladness  and  relief 
swept  over  her.  The  only  person  who  seemed  to  think  as 
she  thought,  the  only  person  she  could  perfectly  trust,  was 
actually  there,  standing  near  her,  and  yet  so  far  away.  She 
leaned  farther  back  among  the  rocks,  and  waited  until  the 
sound  of  retreating  footsteps,  ringing  on  the  stones,  made 
her  sure  that  they  had  gone.  Then  she  rose,  and  clambered 
out  over  the  rocks  to  the  place  where  they  had  been  standing. 

The  wind  blew  her  hair  about  her  bright  face,  and  made 
little  ripples  in  her  fur  coat.  The  incoming  waves  dashed 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  173 

drops  of  cold  spray  upon  her  gown.  Above  her  head  the 
gulls  were  calling  to  one  another  in  happy  fellowship. 
Annice  was  conscious  of  nothing  except  that  she  was  cold, 
desolate,  unhelped.  But  the  sight  of  that  face  had  roused 
her  more  than  she  was  aware  to  her  old  sense  of  right. 
She  had  lived  all  winter  without  once  suggesting  to  her 
father  that  her  conviction  in  regard  to  his  business  was  still 
at  variance  with  his.  Penitence  had  made  her  a  coward. 
She  would  talk  with  him,  reasonably,  not  in  anger  as  she 
had  done  before,  and  he,  too,  would  be  reasonable.  It  was 
time  to  go  home  for  dinner,  but  the  girl  was  loath  to  go. 
She  blew  softly  on  her  fingers  to  keep  them  warm.  A  boy 
with  scarlet  mittens  and  scarlet  stockings  passed,  looking 
curiously  toward  her.  He  lived  in  the  settlement  of  oyster- 
men's  houses  on  the  left,  and  he  was  going  home  from 
school  to  get  his  dinner.  Presently  a  woman  came  from 
the  opposite  direction.  She  was  carrying  a  little  child 
whose  head  nestled  in  the  hollow  of  her  shoulder.  Some- 
thing in  the  curve  of  the  arm  folded  round  the  baby  smote 
Annice  to  the  heart  with  the  full  sense  of  her  forlornness, 
and  she  stood  shivering  in  the  cold,  watching  hungrily,  as 
long  as  she  could  see  them,  the  mother  and  child  upon  the 
winter  rocks. 

"Father,"  she  said  that  night,  when  he  had  at  last  closed 
the  book  he  had  been  reading  to  her,  and  the  blessed  boon 
of  silence  had  come  for  a  minute,  "  I  want  to  ask  some- 
thing about  your  — about  Smith's." 

The  voice  that  had  started  out  so  bravely  broke  as  she 
saw  the  hardening  of  her  father's  face.  His  lips  were 
slightly  open.  Cheeks,  mouth,  and  forehead  looked  as  if 
they  had  been  graven  with  a  fine  tool  upon  thrice-tempered 
steel.  Annice  folded  her  embroidery  and  went  bravely  on. 

"  If  you  knew  the  actual  conditions  in  that  shop,"  she 
said,  "  I  am  sure  that  you  would  not  let  it  go  on  a  day. 
Couldn't  you  begin  by  raising  the  cash-girls'  wages,  and 
then  gradually  abolish  existing  abuses  ?  I  know  it  would 
pay  in  the  end." 


1 74  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

The  hard  blue  eyes  frightened  her.  Mr.  Gordon  was 
considering  how  gentle  and  impressionable  his  daughter 
looked.  This  streak  of  perversity  must  be  crushed  out  of 
her,  and  now  was  the  time. 

"Annice,"  he  remarked,  bringing  his  hands  together  like 
a  vice,  "  you  have  done  enough  this  winter  to  make  my 
life  a  burden  to  me.  It  isn't  sufficient  that  you  have  pub- 
licly insulted  me.  You  have  disgraced  the  honour  of  the 
Gordon  name,  and  made  your  own  a  byword  on  street- 
corners.  I  ask  you  in  future  to  attend  to  your  conduct 
and  not  to  mine,  and  to  try  to  live  down  what  you  have 
already  done.  Smith's  shall  remain  in  every  particular  as 
it  is." 

The  girl  was  not  crushed.  She  did  not  even  change 
colour  at  the  insinuation.  She  gazed  steadily  at  her 
father  until  he  turned  away.  Then  she  looked  at  the 
carpet,  meditating.  Her  voice  was  gentle  when  she  spoke 
again. 

u  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said.  "  If  I  have 
disgraced  you,  I  am  sorry.  I  have  done  nothing  I  am 
ashamed  of.  I  want  to  say  something  that  I  have  been 
thinking  about  for  a  long  time.  If  the  business  goes  on 
in  all  those  places  as  it  has  always  done,  I  must  try  to 
support  myself  in  some  way.  I  cannot  take  that  money." 

Her  father's  words  had  stung  her  to  the  quick.  What 
did  he  mean,  she  asked  herself,  as  she  lay  awake  that  night 
and  watched  the  moonlight  touching  the  foolish  picture  of 
the  little  girl  in  blue,  foolish,  but  inexpressibly  dear  be- 
cause of  the  donor.  The  girl  forgot  the  harsh  statements 
that  her  father  had  made.  She  was  thinking  of  her  mother, 
of  that  long  last  illness  in  the  room  downstairs.  The 
patient  face  upon  the  pillows  was  more  vividly  real  to 
Annice  than  were  the  people  she  talked  with  day  by  day. 
She  could  not  forget  it,  nor  could  she  forget  it  as  it  had 
looked  in  the  coffin,  still  tired,  as  if  even  death  could  not 
bring  rest  and  peace. 

"  Mother  !  "  cried  the  girl,  sharply,  in  the  silence  of  mid- 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  175 

night,  "  mother ! "  She  sat  up  in  bed,  her  arms  clasped 
round  her  knees,  shivering  with  cold. 

There  had  been  more  reason  than  Annice  had  dreamed 
for  those  sharp  words  her  father  had  said.  A  great  anxiety 
harassed  Mr.  Gordon.  The  second  morning  after  his 
daughter's  return  he  had  been  startled  by  a  paragraph 
in  the  paper.  It  was  about  the  disappearance  of  one 
of  the  shop-girls  at  Smith's.  She  had  gone  out  as  usual 
when  the  shop  had  closed  at  night,  but  she  had  not 
returned. 

"  My  daughter,  my  daughter !  "  Mr.  Gordon  had  mur- 
mured to  himself,  yet  not  without  a  spectator.  "  Think 
of  the  disgrace  !  " 

He  had  watched  the  papers  carefully.  After  a  second 
item,  giving  the  report  of  the  matron  of  the  Merton  Home, 
he  had  found  nothing  further.  He  had  hoped  that  the 
truth  would  lie  concealed,  as  it  was  often  fitting  for  the 
truth  to  do.  But  meanwhile,  reports  had  spread  through 
the  city.  The  fellow-clerks  of  Annie  Whitney  had  seen 
her  driving  with  Mr.  Gordon  on  Sunday.  Mr.  Smith,  the 
manager,  became  interested,  looked  up  the  matter,  and 
found  the  secret  of  relationship  between  his  employer  and 
the  former  shop-girl  at  Smith's.  The  majority  of  em- 
ployees at  Smith's  were  loyal  to  the  girl,  whose  sweetness 
had  won  them,  but  a  few  remembered  that  she  had  been 
from  the  first  a  suspicious  character.  She  had  asked  too 
many  questions.  She  had  accepted  notes  from  customers. 
She  had  treated  the  girl  who  liked  chocolate  with  whipped 
cream  to  too  expensive  a  luncheon  for  a  shop-girl  to  give. 
The  scandal  connected  with  so  prominent  a  name  as  that 
of  Mr.  Gordon  crept  over  to  South  Winthrop,  and  was 
whispered  through  gauze  veils  on  the  streets,  spoken  aloud 
over  cups  of  afternoon  tea.  The  secret  of  Mr.  Gordon's 
connection  with  Smith's  had  become  public  property.  The 
statement  of  this,  and  of  his  daughter's  sojourn  there  as 
clerk  made  an  interesting  item  for  Winthrop's  one  society 
journal.  Mr.  Gordon  had  received  a  marked  copy  on  the 


176  HENRY  \VORTHINGTON 

day  preceding  Annice's  renewal  of  the  old  discussion  about 
Smith's. 

For  Annice,  the  shock  of  discovery  in  regard  to  these 
things  was  delayed  by  illness.  She  was  suffering  from  an 
attack  of  slow  fever.  The  family  physician  had  ordered 
her  to  bed. 

"  Been  drinking  bad  water  ? "  he  had  asked,  on  the 
occasion  of  his  first  visit.  "  It  looks  as  if  you  had  some- 
time been  exposed  to  unsanitary  conditions.  Germs  will 
lie  dormant  in  the  system  for  months  and  then  come  to 
life." 

The  eyes  of  father  and  daughter  met  with  a  look  of 
understanding.  His  were  full  of  reproach. 

u  It  is  no  more  for  me  than  for  the  others,"  said  Annice, 
joutting  her  hand  to  her  fever-flushed  cheeks. 

A  trained  nurse  watched  over  the  great  bed  in  the  girl's 
room.  She  was  not  dangerously  ill,  but  Mr.  Gordon  was 
paralyzed  with  fear.  He  wandered  about  the  house,  torn 
between  anxiety  about  the  girl's  health  and  anguish  regard- 
ing the  family  respectability.  He  could  see  suspicion  in 
the  inquiries  made  about  the  girl  by  elderly  ladies  who  had 
known  her  mother.  One,  in  an  antiquated  black  bonnet 
and  mitts,  said  that  sickness  and  death  meant  sometimes 
sparing  us  greater  trials.  This  was  too  much  to  bear  !  He 
haunted  the  sick-room,  neglecting  his  business,  and  he  helped 
care  for  his  daughter  with  a  gentleness  that  surprised  the 
girl.  Sometimes  he  thought  of  her  criticism  of  him  with 
a  feeling  that  was  not  entirely  condemnation,  yet  he  did 
not  condemn  himself.  A  disapproving  conscience  would 
have  been  a  contradiction  in  terms  in  the  Gordon  family. 
So  he  watched  with  wistful  eyes  at  the  foot  of  his  daughter's 
bed  for  physical  improvement  and  for  mental  change  in 
her. 

For  one  brief  period  Annice  was  delirious.  In  her 
dream  she  was  haunted  by  sights  and  sounds  from  her 
recent  experience.  She  was  in  the  shop  again,  with  the 
toys  about  her.  Suddenly  the  walls  opened,  and  she  and 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  177 

her  father  were  standing  side  by  side  at  the  judgment-seat. 
The  careful  literalness  of  her  childhood's  teaching  came 
back  in  vivid  spectacular  pictures.  God  sat  upon  a  great 
white  throne,  and  called  her  father  to  him.  He  spoke  no 
word,  but  pointed  to  a  place  among  those  on  his  left  hand, 
and  her  father  turned  to  go,  old,  gray-haired,  pathetic. 
Then  Annice  in  her  dream  sprang  forward,  crying, 
"  Father !  "  Mr.  Gordon  heard  and  gave  thanks  that 
the  bed  of  illness  was  being  used  to  bring  his  erring  daugh- 
ter to  a  sense  of  right. 

In  the  days  of  Annice's  convalescence,  he  was  deeply 
gratified  to  see  Mrs.  Appleton's  carriage  under  his  porte- 
cochere.  He  drew  a  great  sigh  of  relief  and  went  into  the 
dining  room  to  wait  until  he  was  asked  for.  The  sight  of 
her  elegant  black  costume  was  enough  to  console  him 
partially  for  the  sting  of  that  item  in  the  society  journal. 
He  studied  the  harness  and  the  coachman's  livery  through 
the  dining-room  window  while  Mrs.  Appleton  was  upstairs 
in  the  sick-room.  Two  or  three  points  he  resolved  to 
copy  in  his  own  equipage.  The  bay  ponies,  he  observed 
with  satisfaction,  were  not  so  fine  as  his  own. 

A  chance  remark  from  an  acquaintance  the  day  before 
had  roused  Mrs.  Appleton  to  hasty  action.  She  had  en- 
tered the  library  and  startled  her  brother  from  drowsy 
contemplation  of  Maeterlinck. 

"  Virgil,"  she  said,  panting  still  from  the  rapid  ascent 
of  the  steps,  "  have  you  heard  anything  about  Annice 
Gordon's  running  away  from  home  ?  " 

The  faintest  possible  change  of  colour  rippled  over  Mr. 
Penrose's  face.  He  had  been  expecting  this !  Poor 
Annice  ! 

"  Heard  ? "  he  asked  gently,  after  a  minute's  hesitation. 
"  No,  I  have  heard  nothing." 

He  bent  his  eyes  again  upon  his  book.  Mrs.  Appleton 
gave  him  one  withering  glance  on  leaving  the  room. 

"  If  Virgil  only  had  a  little  practical  interest  in  human 
beings,  we  could  get  along  better,"  she  remarked  to  her- 


1 78  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

self.  "Why  should  I  have  a  brother  who  is  only  an 
edition  de  luxe  ?  " 

Upstairs  in  her  own  sitting-room  she  fell  to  thinking. 
Annice  had  been  on  her  conscience  this  winter.  She 
had  really  meant  to  bring  the  girl  out  on  her  return  from 
Florida,  but  the  thought  of  Mr.  Gordon  had  deterred 
her.  There  had  always  been  question  about  the  social 
possibilities  of  these  people,  and  now,  if  Annice  had  made 
a  fool  of  herself  in  any  way,  it  was  impossible.  Mrs. 
Appleton  rose  to  throw  off  her  wraps. ,  Then  her  eye 
lighted  on  the  picture  of  her  little  daughter  Frances, 
and  she  recalled  the  days  when  these  two  children,  still 
wearing  short  skirts  and  with  their  hair  in  long  braids,  had 
played  about  her  lawn.  She  could  see  now  the  sunshine 
and  shadow  on  their  pretty  heads.  V ranees  had  loved 
that  little  girl,  and  Frances  had  always  had  her  own  way. 
She  had  brought  the  slender,  frightened  little  creature  home 
with  her  from  school.  Then  it  had  been  easy,  for  Mrs. 
Gordon  was  an  invalid,  and  Mr.  Gordon  was  too  busy  for 
society  —  but  now  ?  Mrs.  Appleton's  face  grew  soft. 
Whatever  madness  little  Annice  had  indulged  in,  she  was 
innocent.  Mischievous  she  might  be,  but  guilty  of  anything 
that  might  mean  disgrace,  never !  The  great  lady  squared 
her  shoulders,  and  the  heavy  silk  of  her  gown  creaked  under 
her  fur  wrap.  She  would  stand  as  a  wall  of  protection 
between  that  child  and  the  world,  and  she  had  a  well- 
justified  feeling  that  nothing  could  batter  her  down.  There 
would  even  be  a  certain  pleasure  in  bringing  the  girl  home 
with  her,  thus  defying  the  condemnation  of  Winthrop. 
So  she  ordered  her  carriage  and  drove  out  to  Winthrop 
Heights. 

Annice  was  sitting  by  an  open  window,  in  the  sweet  air  of 
the  soft  spring  day.  There  was  a  touch  of  life  in  the  wind 
that  stirred  the  curtains.  Only  patches  of  snow  were  left 
on  the  brown  marshes,  and,  out  beyond,  the  sea  was  blue. 
The  physical  weakness  of  her  first  days  of  recover}'  had 
left  her  indifferent  to  everything  except  the  number  of  rose- 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  179 

buds  on  the  wall-paper.  With  added  strength  she  had  out- 
grown that  interest,  and  had  watched  with  untiring  eyes 
the  march  of  spring  days  over  the  sea.  She  greeted  her 
visitor  with  a  little  cry  of  welcome. 

"  I  have  come  to  take  you  home  with  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Appleton,  impulsively,  touched  by  the  hollows  in  the  girl's 
cheeks.  "  Will  you  come  ?  " 

41  Yes,  please,"  said  Annice,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

Mrs.  Appleton  drew  a  chair  to  the  girl's  side  and  grasped 
the  slender  hands  in  her  own. 

"  Now  tell  me  when  and  how  and  why  you  ran  away 
from  home." 

Annice  did.  The  lady  listened  with  the  charity  that  she 
would  have  bestowed  upon  any  school-girl  escapade,  and 
with  utter  lack  of  comprehension  of  the  motive. 

"You  poor  child,"  she  said  compassionately,  "you 
haven't  any  mother.  Now  tell  me  what  you've  been  doing 
since  November,  besides  being  sick  ?  " 

"Taking  care  of  father,"  said  Annice.  "That's  what 
I  came  home  to  do." 

"Well,  you've  certainly  found  a  new  way  of  making 
home  happy,"  observed  Mrs.  Appleton,  thinking  of  the 
scandal  to  be  lived  down.  "  Here,  call  your  maid  and  get 
ready.  I'll  go  down  and  see  your  father." 

The  fresh  air  outside  made  Annice's  pulses  throb  with  a 
sense  of  coming  life.  The  ponies  trotted  swiftly  down  the 
hill.  In  the  joy  of  escape  the  girl's  eyes  shone,  then,  look- 
ing back,  she  saw  her  father  standing  erect  and  alone  on  the 
verandah.  Her  conscience  smote  her  and  her  eyes  clouded. 

"  Oh  dear ! "  she  sighed.  "  I  oughtn't  to  leave  him. 
I  wish  I  knew  what  to  do." 

But  Mrs.  Appleton  had  observed  the  deep  satisfaction 
with  which  Mr.  Gordon  had  consented  to  his  daughter's 
visit. 

"  Tuck  the  robes  round  you,  my  dear,"  she  said  dryly, 
"  and  then  perhaps  your  next  duty  will  become  clearer." 


w^/^^^^ 


raasssw^^  i 


CHAPTER   XV 

T  was  ebb-tide  with  Professor  Penrose. 
A  constant  sense  of  slipping,  of  losing 
grasp,  possessed  him.  He  read  aloud  to 
his  sister  and  to  Annice  —  Annice  had 
been  with  them  now  for  two  weeks  — • 
and  he  chose  subdued  literature,  Arnold's 
poems,  Obermann,  Amiel.  There  was  a 
melancholy  pleasure  in  sitting  in  the  evenings  by  the 
smouldering  library  fire  in  the  girl's  presence,  and  gliding, 
with  falling  cadences,  over  sentences,  each  of  which  marked 
a  loss,  a  letting  go.  His  was  a  mood  of  failure,  and  the 
tide's  "  melancholy,  long-withdrawing  roar  "  was  echoed  in 
his  bosom.  Sometimes  Mrs.  Appleton,  listening  with  her 
head  comfortably  resting  on  the  back  of  her  chair,  her 
plump  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  suggested  that  she  was  tired 
of  consumptive  literature,  and  that  she  would  like  some- 
thing with  a  tonic  quality  in  it,  an  old  fighting  ballad,  or  a 
bit  of  Homer.  Her  brother  complied  with  her  request, 
reluctantly.  Barbaric  emotions  had  little  charm  for  him. 

Always,  as  he  read,  he  lifted  his  eyes  between  the  sen- 
tences to  watch  Annice.  He  noticed  that  she  never  lis- 
tened. As  he  began,  the  troubled  look  came  into  her  eyes, 
and  she  gazed  at  the  coals,  her  mind  far  away.  The  sight 
brought  him  a  twinge  of  mild  pain.  It  was  the  pathos  of 
the  change,  the  thought  of  this  richly  gifted  mind  over- 

ilo 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  181 

thrown,  that  moved  him,  for  he  detected  in  her  eyes  the 
vagueness  of  lunacy.  That  sensitive  nature  had  been  too 
exquisite  to  stand  the  jars  of  this  harsh  world.  In  these 
moments  pitying  tenderness  changed  his  feeling  to  a  fatherly 
one.  Unobtrusively  he  would  guard  her.  Unwatched,  he 
would  bestow  upon  her  all  the  care,  changed,  alas  !  —  that 
he  had  dreamed  his  right.  Yet  he  clung  to  the  thought 
of  this  slowly  receding  emotion.  It  was  the  last  time  of 
vivid  feeling  that  would  come  to  him,  he  said  to  himself, 
the  last  keen  sensation  he  would  know  as  he  went  on 
toward  the  gathering  shadow.  And  he  wanted  to  realize 
its  utmost  power  before  it  took  its  place  among  the  gray 
mists  of  old  feelings  that  made  a  perpetual  tender  atmos- 
phere in  his  mind.  Warm  and  bright  it  had  shot  through 
them,  giving  them  the  glory  of  a  sunset  radiance.  Now 
only  the  gray  end  of  sunset  was  his. 

He  would  not  marry  her.  He  had  decided  that  irrevo- 
cably. Pity  for  her  sometimes  stormed  his  resolution  as 
he  saw  in  her  face  the  pleading  look  of  one  who  begs  for 
guidance  and  for  protection.  He  beat  his  misgivings 
bravely  back.  She  needed,  he  confessed  to  himself,  the 
support  of  his  strong  hand,  but  it  was  impossible.  This 
sufficing  explanation  of  insanity,  the  kindest  he  could  give, 
of  course  rendered  all  thought  of  marriage  wrong.  Any 
other  explanation  wounded  so  cruelly  that  better  part  of 
his  soul,  his  taste,  that  he  fought  the  idea  back  as  unworthy 
of  himself  and  of  her.  Meanwhile,  a  brotherly  oversight 
was  possible  in  this  hard  situation  which  Juliette,  uncon- 
scious of  her  cruelty,  had  arranged.  No  look,  no  motion 
of  the  girl  escaped  him.  At  their  first  meeting  the  pallor 
of  her  forehead,  the  slight  thinness  of  her  cheeks,  had 
been  like  the  touch  of  pleading  fingers,  reaching  for  help. 
Through  all  the  days  between  he  had  seen  her  colour 
coming  back,  and  the  old  merriment  gleamed  now  and 
then  in  her  eyes.  He  had  revelled  in  her  beauty,  empha- 
sized by  the  cut  and  the  colour  of  her  gowns.  The  old- 
rose  house-dress  was  the  one  he  liked  best,  but  the  dull 


i8i  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

blue  with  its  touch  of  gold  was  almost  as  enticing.  The 
vision  of  Annice  at  the  head  of  his  table  still  haunted  him, 
no  longer  as  a  dream  that  would  come  true,  but  as  a 
temptation.  Her  very  pathos  was  an  allurement.  The 
deepened  look  of  seriousness  in  eyes  and  mouth,  that  sad- 
ness which  had  been  a  fleeting  expression,  but  was  constant 
now,  gave  added  charm.  It  was  hard  to  renounce  all  this 
by  sheer  will-force. 

One  afternoon  he  strolled  into  the  drawing-room  and 
found  his  sister  by  her  tea-tray  waiting  for  chance  visitors. 
Annice  was  standing  by  the  window,  wearing,  he  noted 
with  satisfaction,  the  rose-coloured  gown. 

"  Ophelia !  "  he  murmured,  under  his  breath,  and  then, 

"  *  Forty  thousand  brothers 
Could  not  with  all  their  quantity  of  love 
Make  up  my  sum.'  ' 

For  a  moment  he  felt  that  this  was  true. 

u  What  did  you  say,  Virgil  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Appleton, 
turning  toward  him.  She  was  expensively  arrayed  in  a 
black  dress  trimmed  with  jet.  A  drive  earlier  in  the  after- 
noon had  sharpened  the  brightness  of  her  eyes,  and  had 
deepened  the  solid  colour  of  her  cheeks. 

"  I  was  going  to  say,"  observed  Mr.  Pen  rose,  "  that  I 
have  taken  the  liberty  to  invite  to  your  tea-table  a  Western 
friend  of  mine  whom  I  am  longing  to  have  you  meet." 

"  An  old  friend  ?  "  asked  the  lady. 

"  A  friend  of  day  before  yesterday,"  replied  her  brother. 
He  was  strolling  up  and  down  over  the  soft  carpet,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  him,  a  look  of  abstraction  on  his  face. 
"  I  have  met  him  but  once.  He  is  a  type.  The  name  is 
Stubbs,  Martin  Luther  Stubbs." 

The  professor  lingered  with  relish  over  the  name.  He 
was  about  to  make  a  further  remark  when  Alfred  Wor- 
thington  was  ushered  into  the  room.  Soon  after  him  came 
Annice's  Freshman  cousin,  Allan  Hayes,  abashed  at  find- 
ing himself  in  the  presence  of  the  learned  scientist  who  had 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  183 

written  two  books,  and  who  was  the  father  of  his  favourite 
instructor.  Annice  came  forward  from  the  corner  by  the 
window,  and  joined  the  circle  by  the  table.  She  was  pain- 
fully conscious  of  the  anxious  scrutiny  with  which  her 
hostess's  brother  watched  her  movements.  She  half  di- 
vined the  cause,  and  a  gleam  of  amusement  sometimes 
flickered  across  her  lips.  What  other  explanation  could 
he  give  for  that  minute's  terrible  interview  at  Smith's  ? 

Both  Mr.  Penrose  and  his  sister  liked  to  have  people 
drop  in  for  five-o'clock  tea.  The  sanctity  of  this  custom 
in  their  household  could  not  have  been  surpassed  in  any 
English  establishment.  The  service  was  conducted  in  the 
English  way,  with  cups  and  saucers  and  thin  bread  and 
butter  brought  in  on  a  tray  by  a  maid  in  cap  and  apron. 
No  ostentatious  tea-table  with  souvenir  spoons,  no  vulgar 
sweets,  for  Mrs.  Appleton  !  She  used  the  heavy,  battered 
silver  tea-pot,  the  thin,  old-fashioned  spoons  of  her  ancestors. 
Impressive  in  many  offices,  she  was  nowhere  else  so  im- 
pressive as  in  this.  She  sat  in  the  high-backed,  carved  oak 
chair  that  had  belonged  to  her  remotely  great-grandfather, 
the  governor  of  the  state.  She  conversed  volubly  as  she 
poured  the  beverage  into  her  thin  old  cups,  decorated  with 
lilac  flowers  touched  with  gilt.  It  was  a  time  of  intense 
enjoyment  for  her.  The  interested  faces  of  her  guests, 
the  warm  colour  of  the  furnishings  in  the  room,  the  family 
portraits  on  the  wall,  modern  in  feature  and  in  drapery, 
all  seemed  converted  into  one  harmonious  whole  by  the 
fragrance  of  her  tea. 

Mr.  Penrose  sighed  this  afternoon  as  he  sipped  his  tea 
in  the  chastened  manner  that  was  all  his  own.  He  per- 
mitted Juliette  and  Annice  to  bear  the  burden  of  entertain- 
ment to-day,  and  he  gave  himself  up  to  silent  enjoyment. 
He  was  always  present  at  this  function,  though  the  point 
pf  view  of  his  appreciation  was  different  from  his  sister's. 
He  regretted  a  little  her  insistence  upon  ancestral  honours, 
and  her  constant  harping  upon  colonial  possessions  and 
colonial  virtues.  For  him  the  past  stretched  farther  back, 


1 84  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

and  with  a  broader  sweep.  The  art,  life,  literature  of 
England  were  his  inheritance.  Nothing  brought  back  to 
him  so  vividly  as  this  five-o'clock  hour  those  years  at 
Oxford  when  he  had  felt  his  identity  with  England  most 
complete.  This  faint  fragrance  of  tea  made  real  to 
sense  the  open  windows,  the  smooth-shaven  lawns,  the  gray 
stone  towers  with  their  climbing  ivy,  all  the  "  sweet  city 
with  her  dreaming  spires."  He  could  see  her  slow  rivers 
creeping  under  willow  branches  through  those  meadows  of 
English  green ;  he  could  breathe  the  sweetness  of  those 
hawthorn  hedges.  For  a  few  moments  he  lived  again  in 
the  one  spot  where  his  soul  had  found  an  abiding-place  in 
a  rough  world. 

The  conversation  to-day  ran  upon  Winthrop,  its  old 
life,  its  customs,  its  ideals.  Many  a  quaint  bit  of  history 
concerning  the  institution  that  had  formed  so  large  a  part 
of  his  life  was  stored  up  in  Alfred  Worthington's  mind. 
Many  an  ancestral  anecdote  was  forthcoming  from  Mrs. 
Appleton.  Allan  Hayes  listened  with  breathless  interest, 
the  bright  red  of  his  cheeks  deepening  in  the  excitement 
of  the  moment.  Annice  listened,  a  smile  on  her  lips,  the 
questioning  sadness  still  in  her  eyes.  Professor  Penrose 
listened,  watching  the  colour-effect  of  those  two  heads 
together,  Annice's  and  the  boy's,  but  always  on  the  alert, 
ready,  at  any  sign  of  recurrence  of  that  tragic  malady,  to 
lead  the  girl  from  the  room.  The  duet  of  Professor 
Worthington  and  his  hostess  lingered  over  the  old  etiquette 
of  the  college,  when  seniors  were  required  to  remove 
their  hats  within  fifteen  feet  of  the  president,  freshmen  at 
thirty  feet ;  when  all  were  commanded  to  keep  due  silence 
in  the  presence  of  magistrates,  elders,  doctors,  and  tutors ; 
when  every  scholar  was  "  called  by  his  sirname,  except 
he  were  son  of  a  nobleman,  or  a  Knit's  eldest  son."  They 
all  smiled  over  the  requirements  when  students  were  for- 
bidden to  use  the  English  tongue  in  their  rooms,  being 
commanded  in  public  and  private  to  use  "  lattin."  Just 
here  an  instructor  in  the  Latin  department  was  ushered  in,  and 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  185 

he  took  his  place  with  a  gratifying  sense  of  the  warmth  and 
comfort  and  beauty  of  the  scene.  The  subject  of  discus- 
sion changed.  This  young  scholar,  justly  proud  of  his 
acquaintance  with  Paulus  Diaconus,  Johannes  Diaconus, 
and  the  rest,  started  to  lead  the  conversation  through 
perilous  mediaeval  paths  where  Mrs.  Appleton  could  follow 
only  with  a  forced  smile  of  intelligence, "  faint,  yet  pursuingv" 
Ignorance  of  anything  was  hard  for  her  to  confess.  She 
was  trying  to  lead  the  speaker  back  to  safer  and  more 
familiar  ground,  when  Henry  Worthington  entered  the 
room. 

For  some  reason  that  no  one  could  explain,  his  coming 
was  like  an  electric  shock.  Mr.  Penrose  saw,  with 
nervous  anxiety,  that  the  colour  faded  from  Annice  Gor- 
don's face,  leaving  her  lips  white.  Then  a  look  of  terror 
came,  and  she  gazed  at  the  newcomer  with  piteous  eyes. 
Alfred  Worthington  was  distressed  beyond  measure  by  his 
son's  bearing.  He  greeted  his  hostess  almost  curtly. 
That  simple,  direct  manner  was  too  abrupt.  Was  it  his 
fault,  the  father  asked  himself,  that  Henry  at  times  seemed 
to  lack  polish  ?  Had  he  failed,  being  only  a  man,  and  un- 
fitted for  the  task,  to  train  his  son  to  a  sense  of  the  nice 
shades  of  demeanour  ?  Here  he  stood,  almost  staring  at 
Miss  Gordon.  A  sense  that  his  life  had  been  a  failure 
weighed  like  lead  upon  the  professor's  heart. 

"  It  is  strange  that  you  have  never  met,"  Mrs.  Appleton 
was  saying,  as  she  presented  the  young  man  to  Annice. 
u  You  have  both,  however,  spent  much  time  away  from 
Winthrop.  This  is  the  youngest  of  our  university 
professors.  Miss  Gordon  is  the  daughter  of  one  of  our 
trustees." 

Annice  was  helpless  in  the  grasp  of  an  awful  moment. 
Every  eye  in  the  room  was  fixed  upon  her,  and  she  knew  it. 

"  I  have  heard  of  Mr.  Worthington  from  my  cousin, 
Allan  Hayes,"  she  stammered.  "  He  has  told  me  about," 
—  her  mind  wandered  in  search  of  the  word  she  had  lost  — 
"  your  toys." 


i86  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

Professor  Penrose  averted  his  eyes.  They  were  moist. 
Oh,  the  pity  of  it !  Mad,  mad,  mad  !  Mrs.  Appleton 
concealed  a  look  of  blank  astonishment  by  turning  to 
arrange  her  cups  and  saucers.  The  freshman  smiled. 
He,  too,  was  afraid  of  young  Mr.  Worthington,  and  he 
could  understand  being  as  rattled  as  that.  Only,  he  was 
jolly  after  you  got  to  know  him.  A  look  of  uneasiness 
settled  down  over  Alfred  Worthington's  face.  No  one 
but  Henry's  father  had  seen  the  glance  of  swift  recognition, 
of  mutual  understanding,  that  had  passed  between  his  son 
and  this  strange  young  lady. 

Henry  came  to  the  rescue.  After  that  first  astonished 
glance  his  face  did  not  betray,  by  the  quivering  of  a  muscle, 
his  surprise  in  finding  in  Mrs.  Appleton's  drawing-room 
the  girl  he  had  left  in  her  calico  gown  upon  the  bridge. 
Yet  that  figure  had  wandered  through  his  dreams  all  winter. 
Unconsciously  he  had  watched  for  her  up  and  down  the 
streets  and  on  Winthrop  bridge.  In  a  nightmare  he  had 
seen  her  pursued  by  a  snarling  beast,  and  he  had  sprung 
forward  to  rescue  her,  waking,  before  the  moment  of  de- 
liverance came,  with  a  sense  of  having  failed  some  one 
who  needed  him.  And  here  was  this  oppressed  working- 
girl,  in  a  dress  of  bewildering  beauty,  helping  Mrs.  Apple- 
ton  receive  on  her  day  at  home.  He  treated  her  extraordi- 
nary remark  as  if  it  had  been  the  most  natural  bit  of  social 
commonplace. 

"Is  Allan  Hayes  your  cousin  ?"  he  asked.  "  He  is  one 
of  my  brightest  boys." 

Turning,  he  met  a  beaming  smile  upon  his  pupil's  face. 

11  What,  are  you  here,  Hayes  ?  "  he  said.  "I  hope  you 
didn't  catch  that  remark  of  mine." 

"  Allan  says,"  observed  Annice,  with  a  great  effort  at 
control,  "  that  if  it  weren't  for  your  class  he  shouldn't  be 
obliged  to  study  at  all.  Now  he  has  to  work  two  hours  a 
week." 

"Two  hours  a  week,"  groaned  Henry  Worthington,  with 
a  smile.  .  "  And  I  toil  eight  hours  a  day  for  them !  " 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  187 

The  smile  faded  as  he  became  aware  of  the  embarrass- 
ment that  prevailed  in  the  room.  For  the  first  time  in 
Mrs.  Appleton's  career  as  hostess,  nobody  knew  what  to 
do  or  say.  Henry's  mind  was  in  a  rage  of  excitement. 
Who  was  this  girl  ?  How  could  she  be  Mr.  Gordon's 
daughter  ?  Why  was  she  here  ?  Annice,  industriously 
conversing  with  the  young  Latin  scholar,  glanced  at 
Henry  Worthington  with  terror  that  was  not  all  terror. 
In  spite  of  the  danger,  she  felt  safe.  Mr.  Penrose  was 
talking  bravely,  conspicuously,  about  the  compelling  charm 
which  a  great  institution  like  this  often  had  for  the  solitary 
individual.  He  knew  a  case,  he  remarked,  removing  his 
gold  eye-glasses,  and  blinking  as  the  light  touched  his  un- 
protected eyes,  in  which  the  college  had  meant  to  a  man 
all  there  was  in  life  worth  holding  to.  He  had  failed  as 
instructor,  as  president's  secretary,  as  type-writer.  Now, 
idle  and  poorly  clad,  he  clung  to  the  very  shadow  of  the 
buildings  that  had  meant  his  life's  passion  — 

Mr.  Penrose  paused.  He  was  painfully  conscious  that 
everybody  was  listening  to  him,  and  that  nobody  was  inter- 
ested. Juliette's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  fast-coming 
colour  in  Annice's  face.  That  gaze  might  precipitate 
matters !  The  professor  rose,  approached  his  sister,  and, 
bending  to  speak  to  her,  carefully  tipped  over  two  cups 
and  the  hot-water  jug,  hastily  apologizing.  He  was  suc- 
cessful. Juliette's  attention  was  indeed  diverted.  She 
rescued  the  jug,  and  gave  her  brother  one  of  her  severest 
smiles. 

"You  oughtn't  to  live  with  anything  more  breakable 
than  a  pensee,  Virgil,"  she  remarked. 

It  was  with  a  sigh  of  relief  that  the  host  turned  to  meet 
Mr.  Stubbs,  who  had  just  entered  the  room,  and  was  gazing 
about  it  with  evident  curiosity.  He  was  a  tall,  lean  indi- 
vidual, with  hawk-like  profile,  and  bright,  inquiring,  hawk- 
like eyes.  His  business  suit  of  gray  looked  worn  and  old. 
His  thin,  grasping  hands  moved  restlessly  all  the  time,  as 
if  seeking  for  something  to  do. 


1 88  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

"  I've  been  looking  at  the  images  off  the  Parthenon," 
he  said,  as  he  sank  into  his  chair,  after  bestowing  a  nod 
upon  his  hostess.  "  This  morning  I  had  chapel,  Greek, 
art,  history,  mathematics ;  this  afternoon,  library  and 
museum.  You  have  to  keep  moving  if  you  are  going  to 
take  it  all  in." 

Mrs.  Appleton  conversed  most  affably  with  the  stranger. 
Her  lips  twitched  as  she  saw  the  look  of  blank  astonish- 
ment upon  Professor  Worthington's  face.  Mr.  Stubbs 
refused  tea.  That  was  for  women,  he  said.  At  the 
end  of  five  minutes  he  unblushingly  took  out  his  watch, 
remarked  that  he  must  be  going,  and  disappeared. 

"  A  protege  of  mine,"  observed  Mr.  Penrose,  "  from 
Omaha.  He  came  to  hear  me  lecture,  last  Wednesday, 
but  left  before  my  remarks  were  half  over.  He  wanted  to 
visit  a  class  in  mineralogy  for  the  rest  of  the  hour.  I  meet 
him  everywhere.  He  goes  to  hear  everybody  and  to  see 
everything.  You  find  him  in  the  library  improving,  with 
books,  the  fifteen-minute  period  between  appointments. 
You  find  him  at  every  conceivable  lecture  taking  notes. 
I'm  immensely  interested  in  him.  He  is  a  new  type,  and 
yet  it  is  a  type  as  old  as  Shakespeare,  the  pathetic-comic." 

"  I  presume  that  he  is  trying  to  achieve  in  one  winter 
all  that  past  generations  did  not  do  for  him,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Appleton. 

"  The  boys  say  he  is  hustling  for  culture,"  said  Allan 
Hayes,  .shyly. 

Professor  Worthington  was  deeply  hurt. 

u  It  is  the  hardest  thing  a  man  has  to  bear,"  he  observed, 
with  something  almost  like  a  scowl,  "  this  kind  of  scholastic 
dissipation.  America,  especially  Western  America,  has  yet 
to  learn  that  a  little  information  about  many  things  is 
much  worse  than  no  learning  at  all.  Scholarship  here  has 
no  worse  foe  than  this  tendency  to  start  out  in  half  a 
dozen  lines  of  work  at  once,  and  drop  them  all." 

Alfred  Worthington  did  not  know  it,  but  he  was  talking 
at  Henry.  Henry,  conversing  with  his  pupil,  was  trying 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  189 

to  control  his  wandering  eyes.  If  he  looked  out  of  the 
window,  some  article  of  furniture  near  it  attracted  his 
glance,  and  that  article  proved  a  direct  pathway  to  Miss 
Gordon.  If  he  examined  a  book,  he  lifted  his  eyes  in 
trying  to  get  a  better  light  on  it,  and  his  eyes  encountered 
a  fleeing  glance  from  hers.  Somewhere  in  an  inmost 
being  that  he  had  never  yet  discovered  he  was  conscious 
of  every  movement  she  made,  whether  he  saw  it  or  not. 
Wresting  his  gaze  from  the  spot  where  she  was  sitting, 
he  encountered  his  father's  glance,  and  heard  that  father 
observing  to  Mr.  Penrose  :  — 

"  The  methods  of  our  age  fill  me  with  pride.  To  arrive 
anywhere  a  man  must  choose  his  narrow  line  of  work, 
the  narrower  the  better,  and  follow  it  unfalteringly  to  the 
end.  The  mental  discipline  of  that  mere  concentration 
is  of  incalculable  value." 

Henry  resented  that  grieved  look  in  his  father's  eyes. 
Ranking  the  practical  problems  of  his  science  as  mental 
dissipation  seemed  to  him  prejudiced  and  unfair.  Then, 
thinking  of  his  father  still,  his  eyes  travelled  back  to  Miss 
Gordon  again,  for  Alfred  Worthington  had  turned  to  her 
as  he  had  risen  to  go,  and  was  speaking  to  her  of  his 
acquaintance  with  her  father. 

"  I  trust  you  are  not  one  of  the  young  ladies,  Miss 
Gordon,"  he  observed,  "  who  are  trying  to  gain  entrance 
into  our  university." 

"  Never  !  "  said  Annice,  laughing.  "  There  are  so  many 
more  interesting  things  to  do." 

Mrs.  Appleton  looked  across  the  little  group  of  people, 
standing  to  take  their  leave. 

"  Heaven  forfend  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Miss  Gordon 
may  do  a  great  many  foolish  things  "  —  here  Penrose  and 
Henry  both  looked  guilty,  and  turned  their  eyes  away  — 
"  but  she  will  never  do  anything  so  foolish  as  that.  What 
is  the  use,"  demanded  Mrs.  Appleton,  folding  her  hands 
at  her  waist,  "of  women  trying  to  pretend  that  they  have 
brains  ?  Words  light  on  their  lips  and  they  use  them 


190  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

without  the  slightest   idea   of  what   their   meaning;   is.      I 

O  O 

heard  a  woman  lecturer  the  other  day  explaining  to  an 
English  lady  one  use  of  the  phrase,  l  survival  of  the  fittest.' 
4 1  don't  know  how  you  use  it  on  the  other  side  of  the 
water,'  she  remarked,  i  but  here  in  America  we  mean  the 
survival  of  the  truly  noble.'  "  . 

Mrs.  Appleton's  lengthy  remarks  had  given  Henry  one 
precious  minute  face  to  face  with  Miss  Gordon. 

"  Why  did  you  do  it  ?  "  he  asked  simply,  gazing  at  her 
now  with  no  feeling  of  self-rebuke. 

"To  find  out  about  things,"  said  Annice,  looking  up  at 
him  with  serious  and  honest  eyes.  An  inexpressible  feel- 
ing of  relief  was  making  atonement  to  the  girl  for  the 
sense  of  disgrace  that  had  cut  her  to  the  soul,  for  Mrs. 
Appleton's  amused  charity,  for  Mr.  Penrose's  chilly  tolera- 
tion. Mr.  Worthington  was  speaking  the  first  words  that 
suggested  the  possibility  of  any  one's  understanding  her. 
Her  eyes  pleaded  for  sympathy,  and  she  got  it. 

"  It  was  the  same  thing  you  were  trying  to  do,"  she 
continued  after  a  little  pause,  "  only  I  had  other  reasons 
for  wanting  to  know,  and  I  took  another  way  to  find  out." 

Henry  was  silent.  The  girl's  colour  was  changing  as 
if  some  imprisoned  flame  were  burning  its  way  out  in 
flashes  through  her  face.  In  her  bright  gown  she  looked, 
with  her  white  forehead  and  shining  eyes,  like  a  spirit 
incarnate,  a  symbol  of  the  aspiration  of  his  strong  youth. 

"  Those  people  suffer  so,"  said  Annice,  her  lips 
quivering. 

"  And  you  care,  that  way  ?  "  asked  Henry,  in  a  whisper. 

The  look  that  passed  between  them  was  full  of  the 
sympathy  of  a  common  hope. 


>/%^<WM(««Rm^m\m^^ 


CHAPTER   XVI 

N  the  night  of  Saturday,  the  eighth  of 
April,  the  employees  of  Smith's  stood  in 
little  groups,  waiting  for  their  wages. 
It  was  five  minutes  before  six,  and  the 
shop  was  ready  for  closing.  Long 
brown  cloths  had  been  spread  over  the 
counters.  The  shades  were  down, 
except  in  the  windows  where  a  display  of  hats  or  of  even- 
ing dresses  made,  in  the  flare  of  the  electric  light,  a  con- 
tinual advertisement.  Mary  Burns  held  out  her  hand  to 
take  from  the  messenger  the  pile  of  envelopes  containing 
the  week's  salary  that  she,  as  head  of  her  department, 
distributed  to  the  girls  under  her  charge.  She  did  it 
briskly,  smiling  back  in  good  fellowship  at  the  smiles  that 
greeted  her.  Then  she  slowly  took  her  own  envelope 
and  tore  it  open.  She  had  never  done  this,  since  the 
night  when  her  salary  had  been  raised,  without  feeling 
that  that  good  luck  might  be  repeated.  They  needed  the 
money  twice  as  much  now  since  Jennie  had  stopped  work. 
Only  the  usual  bills  and  the  half  dollar  dropped  out, 
but  with  them  came  a  brief  note.  She  read  it  and  reread 
it  until  the  lines  grew  dim  upon  the  page.  The  superin- 
tendent regretted  to  state  that  the  services  of  Miss  Mary 
Burns  as  saleslady  were  no  longer  required  at  Smith's. 
Mary  glanced  up  at  the  clock.  The  superintendent  had 

191 


192  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

already  gone,  and  she  could  not  demand  an  explanation 
to-night.  She  looked  at  the  girls  about  her,  wondering  if 
any  one  had  noticed  her  agitation.  The  Jewess  was 
walking  away,  in  her  huge  hat  with  brilliant  blue  feathers. 
The  pale  girl  who  liked  whipped  cream  was  buttoning  her 
worn  black  coat  with  its  frayed  buttonholes,  and  was 
looking  toward  the  door.  Only  the  little  cash-girl,  whose 
affection  for  Mary  had  undergone  so  many  fluctuations, 
had  seen  the  colour  recede  from  her  cheeks.  She  said 
nothing,  did  nothing,  but  she  hung  round  Mary's  heels, 
like  a  faithful  dog,  as  the  girl  put  the  note  quietly  into  her 
pocket  and  walked  away.  Inheritance  and  training  had 
taught  Mary  Burns  not  to  make  a  fuss  about  things.  She 
threaded  her  way  among  the  people  standing  in  the  street 
to  catch  whiffs  of  the  sweet,  cool  April  air,  and,  climbing 
the  stairs,  she  put  some  oatmeal  to  soak  for  Sunday's 
dinner. 

Early  on  Monday  morning  she  presented  herself  at  the 
office  of  the  superintendent  at  Smith's.  He  was  very 
polite.  He  really  did  not  know  the  reason  for  the  dis- 
missal. There  were  peculiar  circumstances  attending  it. 
Mr.  Smith  had  directed  it,  and  had  vouchsafed  no  explana- 
tion. Could  he  give  a  recommendation  ?  He  hesitated 
and  coughed.  That  would  depend  on  Mr.  Smith.  Then 
he  turned  his  eyes  away.  It  was  unpleasant  to  look  at  the 
face  that  was  working  like  the  face  of  a  hurt  child. 

Anger  flamed  up  in  the  heart  of  Mary  Burns.  It  was 
some  plot.  Had  they  found  some  one  who  could  do  her  work 
better  ?  She  had  been  given  no  reason  for  this  dismissal. 
Had  she  not  served  Smith's  faithfully  ever  since  she  had 
entered,  nine  years  ago,  as  a  little  cash-girl  ?  She  turned 
from  the  superintendent's  office  and  confronted  Mr.  Smith. 
Why  had  they  done  this  thing?  she  demanded,  her  voice 
thrilling  with  her  tragic  consciousness  that  those  few  dol- 
lars of  her  earning  week  by  week  were  all  that  lay  between 
Jennie  and  starvation.  Mr.  Smith  looked  at  her  with 
admiration.  One  lock  of  her  yellow  hair  had  floated  out 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  193 

from  under  her  black  sailor  hat.  The  plain  black  gown 
seemed  to  deepen  her  colouring.  He  apologized  profusely. 
It  was  a  delicate  situation,  he  suggested.  Miss  Burns  would 
probably  prefer  not  to  know.  His  voice  was  rich  with 
sympathy.  He  stood  before  her,  courteous,  deferential,  an 
imitation  gentleman  from  the  tip  of  his  pointed  French 
beard  to  the  ends  of  his  pointed-toed  boots. 

"  I  want  to  know  it,  all  of  it,"  panted  Mary  Burns. 
Her  blue  eyes  looked  fearlessly  at  him. 

"  If  I  must  speak,  I  must,"  he  answered.  "  Come  this 
way." 

He  led  the  girl  to  a  retired  corner  in  the  upholstery  de- 
partment, then  stood,  with  one  hand  resting  on  a  counter, 
his  arm  slightly  bent.  It  is  a  favourite  attitude  in  English 
fashion  books. 

"The  fact  is,"  he  remarked,  looking  cynically  at  the 
girl  from  his  half-closed  eyes, "  that  Mrs.  Smith  requested 
it.  I  must  be  perfectly  frank  with  you.  Mrs.  Smith 
long  ago  saw  you  in  the  shop,  and  noticed  some  slight 
service  that  I  was  able  to  perform." 

He  went  on,  sorry  for  the  girl,  but  also  enjoying  the 
effect  of  his  words.  One  had  to  make  allowances  for  Mrs. 
Smith.  Peace  at  home  was  necessary.  She  had  been 
feeding  her  suspicions  all  winter  on  untrustworthy  evidence 
from  her  own  eyes  and  from  other  people,  and  had  become 
convinced  that  he  was  unduly  interested  in  Miss  Burns. 
This  public  step  he  was  compelled  to  take.  If  by  any 
assistance  he  could  atone  for  this  misfortune  until  Miss 
Burns  found  further  employment,  he  should  be  only  too  glad. 

His  auditor  had  gone.  Turning  abruptly,  she  hurried 
downstairs,  not  stopping  for  the  elevator.  Her  fellow-clerks 
looked  after  her  in  bewilderment  as  she  went  out  of  doors. 
One  of  them  called  to  her,  but  in  vain.  Upstairs,  in  the 
upholstery  department,  Mr.  Smith  gracefully  kicked  an 
ottoman  into  place,  lifted  two  silk  pillows,  embroidered 
with  huge  "  W's,"  intended  to  win  the  hearts  of  the  college 
students,  and  smoothed  a  silk  portiere.  He  was  smiling. 


194  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

Mrs.  Smith's  outbreak  had  been  a  surprise  to  him,  but  if 
he  had  been  planning  things  himself,  he  reflected,  he  could 
not  have  done  so  well.  Mrs.  Smith  was  really  playing 
the  part  of  unsuspecting  providence  in  forwarding  his 
designs. 

Out  on  the  street  Mary  Burns  looked  this  way  and  then 
that,  along  Dowden  Avenue.  She  would  go  to  the  Dennis 
Agency.  She  wanted  no  recommendation  from  Smith's  ! 
A  feeling  of  physical  repulsion  seemed  crawling  over  her 
skin.  The  insult  she  had  received  degraded  her.  Spite  of 
the  sin  she  had  been  compelled  to  witness,  and  wakening 
to  it  had  come  early,  as  it  always  comes  to  the  poor,  she 
was  clean-hearted  as  a  little  child.  Her  swift  walking 
down  a  long  side  street  to  the  dilapidated  square  that  she 
was  seeking  quieted  her.  There  was  an  air  of  failure 
about  the  place.  Bricks  were  loosened  or  wanting  in  the 
walls  of  the  houses,  and  the  fence  round  the  tiny  plot  of 
draggled  grass  was  broken  in  two  places.  The  old  trees 
were  rotting  away  limb  by  limb.  As  she  passed,  a  dead 
twig  fell  on  her  cheek,  and  grazed  the  skin.  She  climbed 
the  dirty  steps  of  the  house  that  she  was  seeking  and 
entered  a  dark  room,  where  a  man  with  unkempt  hair  and 
unclean  fingers  sat  at  an  old  oak  desk.  She  told  briefly 
her  name,  age,  residence,  and  her  desire  in  regard  to  find- 
ing work.  The  man's  solemn  eyes  looked  at  her  inquiringly. 
In  his  worn,  black,  shiny  clothes,  with  ragged  gray  hair  fall- 
ing about  his  ears,  he  looked  like  an  unholy  prophet  who 
had  insight  only  into  the  wrong  things  to  come. 

"  Why  had  she  left  her  last  place,"  he  asked. 

The  girl's  face  grew  red. 

"  I  was  dismissed,"  she  answered.  "  I  can't  tell  you 
why." 

He  shook  his  head.  The  suspicion  in  his  look  stained 
the  girl's  soul.  There  was  silence,  except  when  a  ragged 
canary  bird  chirped  mournfully  in  its  dingy  cage. 

"  Can  you  bring  recommendations  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dennis. 

She  shook  her  head. 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  195 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  spoke  deliberately. 
Rules  were  more  strict  than  they  had  been,  and  she  could 
not  get  any  place  without  certificate  of  health,  recom- 
mendation from  her  last  employer,  and  experience.  The 
first  and  last  requirements  she  could  apparently  meet.  The 
second,  in  regard  to  character  and  skill  in  work,  was  the 
question.  Should  he  go  to  Smith's  and  investigate  ? 

"  I  do  not  like  to  think  of  you  alone  without  work,  in 
this  city,"  he  said. 

His  voice  had  a  grave  and  non-committal  tone  that  could 
change  into  approbation  or  reproof  as  circumstances  dic- 
tated. He  was  genuinely  sorry  for  this  girl.  It  had  prob- 
ably been  her  first  fault.  She  shrank  from  the  implied 
suspicion  as  if  she  had  been  stung. 

"  No,  don't  go,"  she  said.  "  It  wouldn't  do  any  good. 
I  won't  register.  I  can't  afford  a  dollar  for  nothing." 

The  ragged  canary  burst  into  a  triumphant  song  as 
Mary  opened  the  door,  letting  in  a  flood  of  light.  She 
walked  slowly  across  the  square,  counting  her  steps  in 
order  to  have  something  to  occupy  her  mind.  From  the 
grimy  window  of  the  Dennis  Agency  the  proprietor  watched 
her  with  mournful  eyes,  full  of  the  knowledge  of  evil.  It 
would  be  that  way  everywhere,  Mary  reflected,  counting 
four  hundred  and  one  for  her  footsteps.  Her  hands  burned, 
and  her  throat  was  parched.  She  was  clear-sighted,  and 
she  saw  the  end  from  the  beginning.  This  experience 
would  be  repeated  in  whatever  agency  she  approached. 

The  rest  of  the  morning  was  spent  in  application  at  dry- 
goods  establishments.  She  knew  just  how  to  proceed. 
Entering,  she  asked  for  the  superintendent.  To  him  she 
presented  her  application.  In  every  place  where  the  exist- 
ence of  a  vacancy  justified  investigation  of  the  applicant's 
fitness,  the  experience  of  the  Dennis  Agency  was  repeated. 
From  each  conversation  the  girl  retired  with  a  feeling  that  a 
new  stone  had  been  flung  at  her.  She  went  from  Gordon's 
aristocratic  house  in  South  Winthrop  to  Schlesinger's  ple- 
beian place  across  the  river.  At  Gordon's  the  superinten- 


196  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

dent  admitted  that  a  saleswoman  was  needed.  Where  had 
she  worked  ?  he  asked. 

"  At  Smith's,"  answered  the  girl. 

He  broke  ofT  the  interview  at  once.  It  was  an  entirely 
different  class  of  work  in  this  house,  he  said.  Experience 
there  could  hardly  have  fitted  her  for  a  position  at  Gordon's. 

Mary  turned  away.  Her  shoe-lacing  was  untied,  but 
she  was  too  tired  to  fasten  it.  It  was  luncheon  time.  She 
should  never  want  anything  to  eat  again,  she  thought,  but 
she  was  very,  very  tired,  and  would  like  to  rest.  If  she 
should  go  home  Jennie  would  know  what  had  happened. 
That  must  not  come  at  any  cost,  for  Jennie  must  be  kept 
from  going  to  work  again.  It  was  not  far  from  Gordon's 
to  the  common.  Mary  dragged  herself  thither  and  sat 
down  on  one  of  the  wooden  benches  near  a  path.  A 
sleepy  tramp  occupied  the  next  one.  Overhead,  the  sky 
was  blue,  and  the  twigs  of  the  trees  against  the  colour  were 
already  tinted  with  a  hope  of  spring.  The  ground  was 
moist  about  her,  and  the  air,  spite  of  the  sunshine,  touched 
her  sharply  with  a  sense  of  chill.  It  was  very  quiet,  though 
birds  were  twittering  in  the  trees.  Many  people  passed : 
children,  going  home  from  school;  black-robed  students, 
whistling  as  they  walked ;  working-men  in  blouses,  with 
pails  in  their  hands ;  a  gray-haired  professor  of  philosophy, 
thinking  about  the  Absolute.  Some  of  them  stared  at  the 
girl  who  was  sitting  out  in  the  cold,  with  pinched  blue  lips 
and  red  nose.  None  of  them  knew  —  how  could  they  ? 
how  close  was  the  bordering  of  suffering  and  sorrow  on  their 
happy  and  sheltered  lives. 

She  was  not  wasting  her  time  as  she  sat  there,  some- 
times closing  her  eyes  to  rest  them,  sometimes  staring 
absent-mindedly  at  passing  figures.  Every  fibre  in  her 
body  was  energetic,  practical.  She  was  thinking  over  the 
past  winter,  thinking  over  the  days  to  come.  Ahead  lay 
a  long,  desolate  stretch  of  roadway,  with  no  shadow  where 
the  two  tired  pilgrim  sisters  could  rest.  Jennie  had  stopped 
working  in  December.  Mary  had  insisted  upon  that.  Since 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  197 

that  time  they  had  lived  entirely  upon  her  wages,  three  dollars 
and  a  half  a  week.  They  had  eaten  oatmeal  and  potatoes ; 
once  a  week,  beef.  Jennie  had  mended  their  clothes  with 
skill  that  was  little  short  of  a  miracle,  and  Mary's  black 
dress  and  Mary's  stockings  had  done  long  service.  She 
had  done  the  washings  on  Sundays,  and  the  ironing  had 
been  left  undone.  That  was  too  hard  work  for  Jennie. 
At  first  the  older  sister  had  tried  sewing,  but  it  brought  back, 
even  more  quickly  than  did  the  work  at  Schlesinger's,  the 
old,  sharp  pain  in  her  back.  Mary  had  taken  it  all  away 
from  her,  forbidding  her  to  get  more,  and  the  oldet 
woman  had  submitted.  It  was  she  now  who  was  the 
obedient  child. 

That  was  the  past.  What  next  ?  Mary  asked  herself 
sharply,  as  she  rose  to  continue  her  search.  There  was 
absolutely  no  reserve-fund  except  the  ten  dollars  in  the 
bank.  There  were  no  relatives  to  whom  they  could  ap- 
peal. There  were  no  friends.  She  dragged  herself  from 
shop  to  shop  all  the  afternoon.  Everywhere  she  met  the 
same  look  of  knowing  amusement  when  she  confessed  that 
she  had  been  dismissed  without  recommendation.  She  saw 
that  she  was  in  a  fatal  network,  and  she  asked  herself  what 
the  end  of  the  drawing  of  it  together  would  be.  Her  eyes 
took  the  look  of  a  wild  animal  trying  to  escape  from  a  pen. 
Her  hair  was  disordered,  and  little  locks  fell  about  her  face. 
A  seam  in  her  old  worn  gloves  ripped  the  entire  length  of 
one  finger,  and  she  stepped  on  the  facing  of  her  dress,  mov- 
ing awkwardly  because  her  step  was  weak.  There  was  no 
way  to  fasten  it  except  by  taking  a  pin  from  her  collar.  As 
she  did  this,  her  dress  gaped  a  little,  untidily,  in  the  neck. 
She  had  a  disordered  look  when  she  went  home  at  six 
o'clock,  exhausted  by  long  waiting,  and  her  face  was  gray. 

"  What's  the  matter  ? "  asked  Jennie,  with  sharp  anxi- 
ety, when  her  eyes  rested  on  the  girl. 

"  Nothing's  the  matter  of  me,"  said  Mary,  smiling.  "  Is 
anything  the  matter  of  you  ?  My  facing's  torn." 

"  Give  it  here,"  said  Jennie.     She  made  Mary  sit  down 


198  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

in  a  chair  beside  her.  Turning  up  the  skirt,  she  sewed  the 
torn  muslin  with  black  thread.  She  noticed  that  her  sister's 
hands  were  shaking. 

"  You  look  as  if  you  had  seen  a  ghost,"  she  ventured  to 
say,  gazing  wistfully  at  the  younger  girl. 

"  I  haven't  seen  any  ghost  except  you,"  answered  Mary. 
"You  are  ghost  enough  for  me.  Here,  sit  down  again. 
Didn't  I  tell  you  to  leave  my  kitchen  alone  ?  " 

She  pulled  her  sister  down  into  her  chair  again,  and  took 
forcibly  from  her  the  fork  with  which  she  was  turning  po- 
tatoes in  a  little  black  spider,  over  the  oil-stove.  Jennie 
watched  the  girl  as  she  took  off  her  hat  and  came  back  to 
bend  over  the  fire. 

"  Did  you  have  a  good  day  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  It  seemed  kind  of  long,"  said  Mary  Burns,  turning  a 
bit  of  potato. 

At  supper  she  managed  to  talk  almost  as  much  as  usual. 
They  were  often  rather  silent  when  they  were  together. 
Jennie  noticed  with  uneasiness  that  the  girl  evaded  one  of 
her  questions.  She  had  asked  how  many  sales  Mary  had 
made  that  day,  and  Mary  pretended  not  to  hear.  After 
supper,  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair  as  if  exhausted,  then 
sprang  to  her  feet  and  worked  with  feverish  energy,  wash- 
ing the  tea-cups  and  scrubbing  the  spider.  She  begged 
Jennie  to  go  to  bed,  promising  to  come  as  soon  as  she  had 
mended  her  glove. 

Jennie  slipped  out  of  her  limp  shirt  waist  and  alpaca 
skirt,  and  into  her  coarse  white  nightgown.  Then  she 
turned  down  the  patchwork  quilt  and  knelt  to  say  her 
prayers  as  she  had  done  when  she  was  a  little  child.  Anx- 
iety about  Mary  distracted  her  thoughts.  She  could  not 
keep  her  eyes  shut,  and  she  found  herself  looking  between 
her  fingers  toward  the  girl.  It  was  long  before  she  fell 
asleep.  Mary  had  pinned  a  newspaper  to  a  stick  that  they 
had  nailed  to  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  Jennie's  eyes  were 
shaded.  She  tried  to  hum  a  tune  as  she  slowly  mended 
the  finger  of  her  glove,  and  she  rocked  nervously  in  her 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  199 

little  splint-bottomed  rocker.  Jennie  watched  her  yellow 
head  swinging  to  and  fro,  and  the  rhythm  in  the  motion 
gradually  soothed  her  to  sleep. 

When  Mary  saw  that  the  eyelids  were  closed  over  the 
sunken  eyes,  a  great  sigh  of  relief  shook  her.  She  blew 
out  the  candle.  Then  she  stretched  herself  out  on  the  rug 
that  lay  along  the  side  of  the  bed  —  it  was  a  bit  of  rag  car- 
pet saved  from  the  furnishings  of  the  yellow  farmhouse  — 
and  sobbed,  with  her  face  to  the  floor.  She  did  not  dare 
cry  aloud  for  fear  of  waking  her  sister.  It  was  good  to  be 
able  at  last  to  cry  !  Solitude  was  luxury  she  had  rarely 
possessed  for  a  minute  of  her  life.  Her  arms  were  stretched 
out  at  her  sides  ;  the  floor  rested  them  so  !  The  rag  carpet 
dried  the  tears  on  her  cheeks. 

Through  the  soft  days  of  April,  while  in  South  Win- 
throp  the  thinkers  were  puzzling  out  their  problems,  and 
Annice  Gordon  was  learning  to  listen  for  Henry  Worthing- 
ton's  footfall  upon  the  threshold,  the  two  sisters  crawled 
wearily  along  their  hard  pathway.  Mary  was  systemati- 
cally deceiving  her  sister,  and  that  sister  was  vaguely  un- 
easy with  foreboding  of  coming  wrong.  The  younger  girl 
went  away  at  the  usual  hour  every  morning,  came  back 
after  six  at  night.  But  she  was  taciturn,  and  she  disliked 
being  questioned  about  the  events  of  the  day.  She  was 
growing  thin,  and  there  were  dark  circles  under  her  eyes. 
Jennie  noticed  that  her  sister's  shoes  were  wearing  out 
rapidly,  and  she  had  to  have  a  new  braid  on  her  gown 
long  before  the  usual  time.  Mary  saw  the  trouble  day 
by  day  in  her  sister's  eyes  as  they  rested  on  her  dusty 
skirts. 

"  You  ain't  so  careful  as  you  used  to  be  about  your 
looks,"  said  Jennie  one  morning,  as  Mary  put  her  hat  on 
a  little  bit  awry.  u  Your  hair  don't  look  so  pretty  as  it 
used.  I  want  you  to  look  nice,"  she  added  timidly. 

"  I  never  was  as  vain  as  some  folks,"  said  Mary,  with  a 
laugh. 

From  the  nuns'  garden  floated  up  the  sound  of  chimes. 


200  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

u  Hurry,  you're  late  !  "  cried  the  older  sister.  "  You'll 
lose  your  place,  or  you'll  have  to  pay  a  fine  !  " 

The  girl  ran  with  apparent  haste  down  the  stairs. 
Jennie  rocked  to  and  fro  in  the  splint  rocker,  and  sewed 
on  a  gingham  dress  that  she  was  making  for  her  sister. 
She,  too,  practised  her  deceptions.  While  Mary  tramped 
the  city,  hungry,  tired,  desperate,  the  older  woman  sat  and 
sewed,  regardless  of  her  aching  back.  When  Mary  came 
home  at  night,  Jennie  hid  the  fruits  of  her  disobedience  in 
the  farthest  corner  under  the  bed. 

"  She  ain't  the  same  girl  that  she  was,"  said  Jennie  this 
morning,  and  she  dried  her  eyes  on  the  blue  gingham. 

It  never  occurred  to  Mary  Burns  that  it  would  be  wiser 
to  consult  her  older  sister  in  solving  this  new  problem. 
To  her  one  determination  that  Jennie  should  not  know, 
for  fear  that  she  would  go  back  to  work,  Mary  clung  with 
unconquerable  Scotch  tenacity.  A  great  fear  dogged  the 
girl's  footsteps.  Jennie  was  ill.  She  might  die  if  nothing 
were  done  for  her.  The  secret  of  the  dismissal  from 
Smith's  would  help  kill  her,  and  she  must  not  know. 
Toiling  up  and  down  staircases,  dragging  herself  along  the 
streets,  knocking  at  kitchen  doors  and  asking  if  there  were 
a  place  vacant  for  a  maid,  the  girl  saw  constantly  before 
her  eyes  visions  of  the  early  days.  Mary,  the  rebellious 
child,  barefooted,  sunbonneted,  had  run  away  from  school ; 
Jennie  had  begged  her  off  when  punishment  was  threatened. 
Jennie  had  taught  her  to  read,  had  made  her  gingham 
dresses  and  aprons,  had  brought  her  to  the  city  and  had 
slaved  to  save  money  for  a  year's  schooling  before  the  little 
sister  entered  the  ranks  of  the  wage-earners.  She  had 
taken  care  of  the  girl  through  scarlet  fever,  sitting  up  at 
night  and  working  all  day.  She  had  won  great  devotion, 
and  Scotch  devotion  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  rouse. 

Mary  exhausted  her  resources  slowly.  The  possibility 
of  going  back  to  their  birthplace  to  ask  for  work  in  a  farm- 
house never  occurred  to  her.  Nobody  had  had  servants  in 
that  land  where  all  were  alike  poor,  and  the  girl  did  not 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  201 

know  that  domestic  service  on  a  farm  was  possible.  She 
had  applied  at  every  dry-goods  establishment  in  Winthrop. 
She  had  gone  to  three  agencies,  registering  only  in  one, 
because  of  inability  to  afford  fees.  Always,  in  shop, 
agency,  at  private  door,  the  story  of  her  leaving  her  last 
place  of  employment  condemned  her.  She  had  drawn  the 
ten  dollars  from  the  bank  without  her  sister's  knowledge. 
At  the  end  of  the  first  week  she  brought  Jennie  three  and 
one-half  dollars  of  it,  as  she  always  had  brought  her  weekly 
wages.  At  the  end  of  the  second  she  brought  three  and 
a  half  more.  At  the  end  of  the  third  she  gave  her  two 
dollars  with  a  forced  little  laugh. 

"  You  can't  have  any  more  this  time,"  she  said.  "  It's 
a  secret." 

One  night,  as  Mary  was  coming  home  at  the  usual  hour, 
she  met  her  former  employer  as  she  was  turning  into  Salu- 
tation Street.  He  lifted  his  hat,  hesitated  a  minute  with 
great  delicacy,  then  ventured  to  hope  that  Miss  Burns  was 
succeeding  in  her  work.  He  had  no  doubt  she  had  obtained 
something  to  do.  She  looked  at  him  and  passed  on.  He 
noticed  with  satisfaction  that  her  shoes  were  broken  and 
worn.  The  pathos  of  her  clothing,  her  air  of  defeat,  did 
not  escape  him. 

"  You  really  must  not  blame  me  if  things  are  going 
wrong,"  he  said  quickly.  u  I  was  helpless  in  the  matter, 
and  you  refused  my  assistance.  If  I  can  help  you  now — " 

He  saw  the  indignant  colour  in  the  girl's  face.  The 
blue  eyes  had  for  a  minute  all  their  old  brilliancy.  He 
could  not  feel  that  sensation  of  relief  that  forced  its  way 
into  her  unwilling  heart  at  the  sound  of  the  sympathetic 
voice,  but  he  went  down  the  street  in  a  mood  of  self-con- 
gratulation, reflecting  that  you  can  always  get  what  you 
want  if  you  wait  long  enough. 

Mary  kept  up  her  wandering  search  for  employment 
long  after  she  was  convinced  of  its  futility.  Some  days 
she  went  without  luncheon,  coming  perilously  near  to  tell- 
ing lies  to  her  sister  when  she  was  questioned  as  to  what 


202  HENRY  WORTH  INGTON 

she  had  eaten  that  day.  Sometimes  she  carried  with  her 
from  home  a  bit  of  bread  and  butter  or  an  apple.  She 
squandered  no  money  for  car-fares,  and  her  long  walks 
exhausted  her.  As  her  hope  of  getting  work  faded,  her 
one  endeavour  was  to  find  a  way  of  passing  the  time,  so 
that  Jennie  should  not  discover  their  dilemma.  She  walked 
the  streets  slowly,  gazing  into  shop  windows.  She  sat  as 
long  as  she  dared  on  seats  in  the  park.  Often  she  wan- 
dered out  to  the  marshes.  Their  beauty  was  a  secret  from 
her,  but  their  silence  and  sweep,  and  the  absence  of  staring 
eyes,  comforted  her.  Once  she  spent  the  entire  morning 
on  the  ground  by  a  haystack.  The  air  was  sweet  with 
songs  of  birds,  and  all  about  her,  ripple  after  ripple,  was 
coming  in  the  tide  of  summer  colour,  from  palest  foam-like 
shades  to  deepest  green.  In  these  long  hours  of  solitude 
her  fancies  troubled  her,  and  she  was  no  longer  sure  of  what 
she  had  done  or  was  going  to  do.  The  insinuations  that 
had  met  her  were  slowly  poisoning  her  mind.  All  the 
people  she  addressed,  in  hope  of  finding  work,  suspected  her 
of  wrong-doing.  Even  Jennie's  face  wore  a  look  of  great 
misgiving.  Was  she  guilty  of  the  sins  they  attributed 
to  her?  Mary  sometimes  asked  herself.  Her  mind  lost 
its  old,  steady  balance,  and  a  vacant  look  crept  into  her 
eyes. 

More  than  anything  else  she  dreaded  the  moments  of 
waking  in  the  early  morning  hours.  She  lost  her  old  habit 
of  sleep.  The  noise  of  drays  and  trucks  in  the  street,  the 
wailing  of  cats,  kept  her  awake  at  night.  Falling  into  a 
light  doze,  she  would  waken  with  a  great  start,  when  the 
first  faint  light  was  coming  in  at  their  window.  In  these 
moments  of  hush,  before  life  stirred  in  the  city,  the  utter 
desolation  of  it  all  swept  over  her.  She  thought  of  herself, 
and  of  the  motherless  ness  of  the  years  to  come,  when 
Jennie  had  died  for  lack  of  proper  care.  She  thought  of 
Jennie,  with  fierce,  vindictive  longing  to  help,  and  bitter 
rebellion  against  the  facts  of  their  lives  —  all  that  mingling 
of  helplessness  and  omnipotence  which  is  love.  She  did 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  203 

not  cry  at  those  moments  j  she  had  not  strength  for  that. 
She  only  stretched  herself  out,  tense  in  every  muscle,  and 
stared  at  the  wall,  Jennie  asleep  by  her  side. 

One  night  as  she  turned  into  Salutation  Street  on  the 
way  home,  the  postman  met  her.  He  held  out  a  note  to 
her,  a  small,  square  envelope,  directed  in  an  upright  hand. 

"  Ain't  you  Miss  Mary  Burns  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  opened  it  joyously,  standing  in  the  doorway  of  the 
tenement-house  where  she  lived.  It  consisted  of  a  few 
brief  lines  from  Mr.  Smith,  renewing  his  offer  of  assist- 
ance. He  was  always  ready  to  give  it,  he  said,  whenever 
she  should  need  it. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

ENRY  dropped  Pantaleoni  and  picked 
up  Marshall,  trying  hard  for  ten  min- 
utes to  read.  Both  seemed  singularly 
uninspired.  That  old  electric  touch 
between  his  mind  and  the  author's  was 
wanting,  and  he  wondered  how  either 
book  could  ever  have  thrilled  him  so. 
Then  he  turned  to  the  table  and  lifted  a  pile  of  his  manu- 
script. It  was  loathsome  to  the  touch.  Books  and  papers 
he  piled  up  in  a  little  heap,  and  then  he  paced  the  floor  of 
his  room,  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  Those  things  were  all 
in  the  way !  Tangible  objects  and  subjects  for  thought 
seemed  alike  unnecessary  and  even  intrusive.  After  all, 
there  was  an  amazing  simplicity  about  one's  needs  in  life, 
if  one  only  thought  of  it. 

He  stopped  by  his  mother's  picture,  an  old-fashioned 
daguerreotype  whose  elusive  beauty  brought  out  the  fine 
outlines  and  deep  brown  eyes  of  that  face  he  had  never 
known.  Henry  took  the  picture  to  the  window  and  turned 
it  about  until  the  light  fell  properly  upon  it. 

"  I  think  they  look  a  great  deal  alike,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "  The  hair  is  parted  in  the  same  way." 

He  studied  the  portrait  with  an  attentive  scowl.  These 
eyes  had  none  of  the  mirthfulness  that  was  in  Miss  Gor- 
don's at  times.  Hers  had  such  a  range  of  expression,  from 

204 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  205 

pure  mischief,  to  some  dumb,  tragic  sense  of  things. 
Henry  stood  a  long  time  by  the  window,  and  Eleanor 
Worthington's  face  looked  into  her  son's  across  the  silent 
years  with  a  look  that  he  needed  now,  of  entire  sympathy 
and  comprehension.  The  young  man's  keen  gray  eyes 
grew  dreamy  as  he  gazed  out  of  the  window  at  the  ragged 
buttonwood  trees  and  the  tall,  gaunt  poplar.  They  were 
so  different,  all  these  familiar  things  :  the  trees  and  the 
garden  outside,  the  mahogany  bureau  and  bead-fringed  pin- 
cushion inside.  It  had  been  very  sudden,  but  the  world 
was  changed  forever.  The  scent  of  earth  through  which 
young  grass  was  growing  floated  up  to  him.  He  knelt  by 
the  window  and  put  his  head  upon  his  arms.  The  April 
sun  was  warm  upon  his  hair. 

He  had  seen  her  five  times  since  that  first  meeting. 
Every  one  of  those  sacred  minutes,  every  flitting  expression 
on  the  girl's  face  throbbed  now  in  his  veins.  Curiously 
enough,  he  could  not  realize  her  new  environment.  Memory 
could  form  only  one  picture  of  her :  a  slender  figure  in  an 
ugly  calico  waist,  with  smooth,  meek  hair  and  eyes  that 
were  not  meek.  He  resented  the  elegance  of  Mrs.  Apple- 
ton's  parlour,  and  the  unreal  prettiness  of  these  streets  in 
South  Winthrop  where,  by  happy  chance,  he  had  seen 
Annice  twice.  Her  profile  stayed  with  its  first  background 
of  grotesque  toys,  and  faces  lined  with  work  and  care. 

Suddenly  there  came  to  him  like  a  sting,  as  he  knelt 
by  the  window  in  the  fragrant  sunshine,  the  thought  of  his 
winter's  work  in1  class-room  and  in  factory-office.  It  was  all 
so  far  away  !  Why  should  he  remember  Mr.  Gordon  and 
his  objectionable  money  in  a  world  where  pulses  beat  like 
this  ?  What  did  he  care  about  it  anyway  ?  He  wanted 
all  the  world  to  fade  out  of  his  way.  He  wanted  silence 
in  a  great  wide  space  of  grass  and  flowers,  silence,  and 
Annice  Gordon's  face.  Why  had  anybody  else  been 
created  ?  Past  and  future  and  this  wide  earth  of  men  and 
things  seemed  annihilated,  burned  into  nothingness  in  one 
moment  of  white,  vital  heat. 


206  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

The  bell  rang  for  luncheon.  Henry  rose  reluctantly 
and  smoothed  his  hair.  His  steps  were  unwilling  as  he 
went  downstairs.  Everything  in  the  house,  the  books  in 
the  library,  his  mother's  desk,  the  carved  oaken  staircase 
wore  that  look  of  being  new.  Every  touch  of  those 
familiar  things  that  he  had  known  as  a  child  made  him 
conscious  of  the  wide  gulf  that  separated  those  days  from 
these. 

Alfred  Worthington,  as  he  cut  the  steak,  scrutinized  his 
son's  face  anxiously.  It  was  known  to  him  that  Henry, 
notoriously  unsociable  as  he  was,  had  in  two  weeks  called 
three  times  at  Mr.  Penrose's  where  this  strange  girl  was 
staying,  and  that  on  one  of  these  occasions  he  had  re- 
mained the  entire  evening.  The  professor  noted  the  remote- 
ness in  his  son's  eyes.  He  sighed.  His  heart  this  winter 
had  been  an  inn  where  anxiety  after  anxiety  had  come  to 
lodge  and  stay.  For  the  first  time  he  had  not  Henry's 
confidence.  For  the  first  time  he  tried  to  win  it. 

"  That  Miss  Gordon  is  a  very  pretty  girl,"  he  remarked 
incidentally,  watching  his  son  closely.  He  saw  with  satis- 
faction that  the  boy's  appetite  had  not  failed. 

"  Is  she  ?  "  asked  Henry. 

"  Haven't  you  noticed  ?  "  demanded  the  father,  laying 
down  his  fork  and  gazing  in  undisguised  astonishment  at 
the  boy.  Diplomacy  was  not  the  professor's  strong  point. 

"  I  never  notice  girls,"  said  Henry,  loftily. 

It  was  true,  in  view  of  the  plural.  Just  now  his  fingers 
were  busy  remembering  the  touch  of  Annice  Gordon's 
fingers  as  she  had  shaken  hands  with  him  the  last  time. 

"  Fritters  ?  "  asked  the  maid  at  his  elbow. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Henry,  crossly.  He  begged  his 
father  to  excuse  him  and  rose  to  go. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Alfred  Worthington, 
in  anxiety. 

Henry  shook  his  head. 

"  Only  busy." 

"  By  the  way,"  said  the  professor,  speaking  very  gently, 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  207 

"  have  you  given  up  that  nonsense  about  Gordon  ?  You 
told  me  some  time  ago  that  you  were  going  to  give  your 
students  a  kind  of  lecture  about  dishonest  money  in  relation 
to  universities." 

Thought  travelled  painfully  back  in  Henry's  mind  to  that 
old  resolution.  The  idea  had  an  unfamiliar  and  unattrac- 
tive sound.  Money  seemed  just  then  the  last  thing  in  the 
world  of  any  consequence. 

"  It  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  Gordon,"  said  Henry. 

"  What !  "  said  the  professor,  rising. 

"  I  mean,"  the  young  man  explained,  "that  I  had  planned 
to  discuss  the  general  question  of  the  duty  of  a  trained 
thinker  toward  practical  social  problems.  I  mean,  too,  to 
touch  the  responsibility  of  institutions  in  regard  to  the 
money  they  accept.  It  was  Gordon  that  started  me  on 
that  last  subject,  but  the  thing  has  broadened  out  into  an 
entirely  impersonal  problem.  Why  should  any  one  connect 
my  remarks  with  the  gift  of  last  October  ?  " 

The  professor's  face  was  a  mixture  of  pleasure  and  of 
pain. 

"You  might  have  spared  me  a  great  deal  of  anxiety  if 
you  had  explained  sooner,"  he  remarked. 

"  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  you  wouldn't  understand," 
said  Henry. 

Alfred  Worthington  came  round  the  table  and  put  his 
hand  on  his  son's  shoulder. 

"  Don't  do  it,  Henry,"  he  begged.  "  I'm  afraid  that 
you  will  make  a  blunder  that  cannot  be  unmade.  Even  if 
you  do  not  connect  the  matter  with  Gordon's  name,  other 
people  will.  Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  — "  the  pro- 
fessor was  a  brave  man,  but  his  own  audacity  frightened 
him  —  "that  Miss  Gordon  is  Mr.  Gordon's  daughter?" 

"  I  fail  to  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  the  question," 
answered  Henry.  The  dreams  had  faded  from  his  eyes, 
and  the  old,  clear  light  was  coming  back. 

"  You  would  hardly  care  to  insult  her  father,"  said  the 
professor,  turning  away. 


208  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

"  But  what  I  am  going  to  do  hasn't  anything  to  do  with 
her  father,"  insisted  Henry.  "  Don't  you  know  that  Mr. 
Gordon's  ownership  of  Smith's  is  a  secret  ?  Why  should 
anybody  connect  my  criticism  of  ill-gotten  gains  with 
him  ? " 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  the  father,  relieved.  They  were 
probably  the  only  two  people  in  South  Winthrop  who  did 
not  know  that  the  story  of  Mr.  Gordon's  connection  with 
Smith's  was  common  property.  Still  Alfred  Worthington 
was  not  satisfied. 

"  I  can't  get  rid  of  my  old  dislike  in  having  you  meddle 
with  these  things,"  he  said,  smiling  wistfully. 

"But  don't  you  see  that  I've  got  to  do  it?  I  can't  go 
back  on  myself  that  way  ! "  cried  Henry.  "  Don't  look  so 
troubled.  I'd  give  up  my  life  for  you." 

The  anxiety  of  the  whole  winter  gathered  into  one 
minute  of  bitterness  for  the  professor. 

"You  would  do  anything  in  general,"  he  said,  "any- 
thing except  the  one  small  thing  I  ask." 

The  mood  was  contagious. 

"  Was  your  teaching  to  me  when  I  was  a  child  in  regard 
to  the  sacredness  of  conviction  a  matter  of  pure  theory  ?  " 
asked  Henry.  "  You  seem  to  find  its  practical  working 
very  hard." 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  minute  with  estranged 
eyes.  Then  they  both  apologized. 

Henry  toiled  until  two  o'clock  that  night,  elaborating 
heads  four  and  five  of  his  lecture.  To  fail  now  would  be 
barest  cowardice.  His  brain  worked  hard  to  fight  down 
the  intoxication  of  his  pulses.  He  had  to  shut  the  window 
to  keep  out  the  cool  night  air  and  the  star-lit  shadows  of 
the  world  outside.  By  some  strange  irony,  the  thought  of 
Annice  inspired  him  and  hindered  him  at  every  line.  She 
made  him  eager  to  do  and  dare,  and  incapable  of  thinking 
of  anything  except  her.  She  was  the  mainspring  of 
action ;  she  was  also  paralysis.  Her  face  intruded  itself 
between  subject  and  verb. 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  209 

It  was  a  fair  May  afternoon  when  he  walked  down  Wiclif 
Street  to  give  that  crucial  lecture.  All  the  past  year  came 
back  to  him  through  the  bright  air.  He  smiled  in  memory 
of  the  agony  at  examination-time,  not  with  less  sympathy, 
but  with  stronger  confidence  in  himself.  There  was  a  little 
quiver  of  pleasure  in  the  thought  of  what  he  was  about 
to  do.  He  was  going  to  defy  collective  prejudice,  and 
his  lip  curled  in  scorn  at  his  father's  fear  of  civic  dis- 
grace. Swift  swaying  emotion  brought  him  then  a  moment 
of  sorrow  for  the  loss  of  his  father's  approval,  that  sanction 
which  had  been  the  aim  of  his  lifelong  endeavour,  and  he 
walked  more  slowly,  the  shadow  of  young  leaves  falling 
across  his  face.  Oh,  it  was  hard,  with  the  spring  in  his 
veins,  to  hold  to  one  strict  purpose,  and  keep  always  in 
sight  the  goal  on  the  long,  straight,  narrow  road  ahead  !  It 
was  always  discipline,  narrowness,  denial  of  some  kind. 
His  blood  cried  out  for  music  and  dancing  and  the  play  of 
life.  Love  came  back  with  tenfold  power  after  every 
effort  to  shut  it  away. 

He  was  unlocking  the  door  of  his  lecture-room,  and 
crowds  of  students  were  rushing  up  and  down  the  stairs. 
The  moment  reminded  him  irresistibly  of  his  first  day  here. 
There  were  no  terrors  for  him  in  the  class-room  now,  and 
away  from  it  he  longed  to  return,  like  a  young  war-horse 
panting  for  battle.  He  was  looking,  with  a  sense  of  new- 
ness in  it  all,  at  the  rows  of  heads  in  his  lecture-room,  and 
his  heart  beat  high  in  exultation.  They  listened  to  him, 
those  students.  They  cared  for  what  he  said.  His  mind 
touched  theirs  and  both  were  quickened.  And  to-day  was 
his  own.  All  winter  he  had  dealt  with  other  men's  ideas. 
He  had  expounded  Mill  and  Marshall  and  Ricardo.  Reso- 
lutely he  had  ruled  out  all  personal  conviction,  trying  to 
teach  with  a  scientist's  impartiality  the  abstract  theories 
with  which  he  dealt.  To-day  the  problem  was  human, 
personal,  and  he  was  to  speak  words  of  his  own.  He 
opened  his  note-book  and  began. 

Here  a  footstep  on  the  threshold  brought  the  blood  throb- 


210  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

bing  to  his  temples.  He  did  not  look  up,  but  he  knew  that 
his  father  had  entered,  and  had  taken  a  seat  in  the  back  of 
the  room.  His  lips  paled  a  little,  then  his  voice  steadied 
itself  with  deeper  energy.  The  moment's  curiosity  on  the 
part  of  the  class  was  forgotten  in  listening  to  the  young 
professor. 

It  had  occurred  to  him,  he  said,  while  they  had  been  ex- 
amining the  doctrines  of  the  great  German  and  English 
economists,  that  it  would  be  well  to  stop  and  consider  the 
relation  of  the  economist  to  the  practical  workings  of  the 
world  about  him.  The  economist  was  a  man  of  science. 
He  was  forced  to  observe  phenomena  and  report.  He  did 
not  make,  he  only  discovered,  the  economic  laws  that  ruled 
his  world. 

This  was  a  commonplace.  It  was  obvious,  so  obvious 
that  it  was  untrue.  Certainly,  the  economist  was  a  man 
of  science,  not  a  moralist.  But  for  all  that,  to  his  trained 
insight  was  attached  a  certain  moral  responsibility.  If  the 
affairs  of  the  industrial  world  were  wholly  beyond  the  reach 
of  human  control,  as  was  the  province  of  the  chemist  — 
here  the  boy  glanced  for  the  first  time  at  his  father,  and 
from  this  time  talked  to  his  father's  corner  —  he  would  be 
as  free  as  the  chemist  to  take  the  position  of  mere  watcher, 
mere  reporter.  But  the  economist's  world  was  ruled  in  a 
different  way :  half  natural  law,  half  human  will  —  the 
result,  a  complex  problem,  subtle,  many-sided.  To  a  cer- 
tain extent  legislation  could  and  did  control  the  laws  of 
trade.  The  history  of  protection  of  industry  in  any  coun- 
try would  show  that.  For  human  suffering,  then,  legisla- 
tion was  in  a  certain  way  responsible.  To  what  extent, 
was  a  question,  important,  perhaps  the  most  important  in 
the  world,  for  every  citizen  of  any  country. 

"  Stop  and  think,"  he  said,  "  you  whose  votes  and  whose 
opinions  are  to  help  rule  your  country.  Are  there  not 
business  methods,  justified  by  the  letter  of  the  law,  con- 
doned by  a  rich  and  comfortable  Christianity,  but  worthy 
to  be  condemned  by  any  law  except  that  of  wild  beasts  ?  " 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  211 

All  the  time,  Henry  was  conscious  of  the  direct  gaze  of 
his  father's  eyes.  He  knew  that  they  would  be  pained  by 
what  he  was  going  to  say,  but,  strangely  enough,  that  did 
not  trouble  him.  They  seemed  to  be  urging  him  on.  He 
looked  out  of  the  window  where  the  old  oak  tree  that  he 
used  to  climb  stood  outlined  against  the  blue  sky.  His 
father's  voice  came  back  to  him,  as,  standing  beneath  the 
tree,  he  had  urged  the  child  on. 

"  Go  on,  hold  tight !  "  he  had  called.  "  Don't  give  up, 
my  son." 

With  the  inspiration  of  that  voice  in  his  ears  he  went 
on. 

Granting  the  existence  of  such  methods,  he  said,  was 
not  the  economist,  who  was  able  by  dint  of  study  to  form 
more  impartial  judgments  than  were  possible  for  business 
men  in  the  thick  of  the  fight,  was  not  the  economist  bound 
to  suggest  legislative  remedies  for  existing  evils  ?  Was  it 
not  his  duty  to  fight  for  his  principles  in  caucus  and  in 
political  meeting,  and  to  work  his  ideals  into  the  ballot- 
box  ?  Had  he  any  right  to  stand  aloof  from  practical  poli- 
tics, as  the  scholar  was  too  prone  to  do,  keeping  his  own 
hands  clean,  and  sneering  in  moral  superiority  at  the  sins 
he  made  no  effort  to  stop  ? 

For  illustration  of  this  general  principle  he  reported  cer- 
tain facts  that  he  had  discovered  in  the  investigations  of 
the  winter.  He  described  the  methods  of  work  of  great 
monopolies  and  trusts,  the  corruption  that  attended  their 
winning  power  in  our  senate,  the  suffering  that  often  fol- 
lowed in  their  wake  from  sudden  and  arbitrary  rise  in 
prices.  He  sketched  in  detail  the  workings  of  the  huge 
and  unscrupulous  department-shop.  He  touched  briefly 
on  the  horrors  that  attended  the  ready-made  clothing  busi- 
ness. All  of  these  transactions,  he  said,  came  within  the 
letter  of  the  law  of  business  honesty,  yet  judged  by  any 
higher  code  they  were  criminal.  Legislation  had  already 
interfered  with  some  industrial  abuses.  In  factories,  for 
instance,  the  number  of  hours  of  work  had  been  settled  by 


212  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

law.  More  could  be  done.  It  remained  for  the  intelligent 
citizen  to  make  it  impossible  for  men  to  barter  in  human 
misery. 

Henry  dropped  his  notes  and  came  forward  to  the  edge 
of  the  platform.  His  eyes  glowed  under  their  dark  eye- 
brows, and  his  hands  quivered.  There  was  utter  silence 
in  th'e  room  for  a  minute,  and  all  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
him  as  if  they  could  not  turn  away.  The  face  of  the  lame 
boy,  Henry's  favourite  among  them  all,  was  ablaze  with 
interest.  Allan  Hayes's  cheeks  were  stinging  with  remem- 
brance of  the  late  report  concerning  his  Uncle  Gordon's 
ownership  of  Smith's  in  North  Winthrop.  Every  face 
was  full  of  eager  desire  to  hear  more. 

There  was  another  aspect  to  the  question,  the  young 
professor  was  saying.  Certain  ways  of  getting  money 
prove  questionable  when  examined  in  the  light  of  any  finer 
moral  code.  Money  gained  by  methods  like  these  is  con- 
tinually dropping  into  the  coffers  of  institutions  that  stand 
for  the  higher  intellectual  and  religious  life  of  the  country. 
There  might  be  different  ways  of  looking  at  this,  but  to 
him  it  seemed  as  if,  in  accepting  money  like  this,  an  insti- 
tution condoned  the  methods  by  which  it  was  gained,  and 
created  a  demand  for  that  kind  of  profit.  A  curious  para- 
dox was  the  result.  For  theological  institutions,  which 
stood  as  bulwarks  of  Christian  faith,  to  draw  their  support 
from  money  obtained  dishonestly  and  often  at  the  cost  of 
human  life,  meant  winning  the  spiritual  enlightenment  of 
the  race  at  too  great  a  cost. 

"We,  who  are  sons  of  Winthrop,  cannot  afford  this," 
said  Henry,  with  a  little  trembling  in  his  voice.  "  Think 
what  our  university  has  stood  for  in  the  past.  Think  what 
it  must  stand  for  in  the  future.  Its  roots  go  down  into 
the  very  heart  of  our  nation's  life.  New  thought  about 
these  matters  must  start  somewhere.  What  place  could 
be  better  than  in  our  colleges,  which  hold  so  sacred  a  posi- 
tion in  American  life  ?  I  know  no  better  way  of  begin- 
ning than  by  stopping  to  examine  the  gifts  made  to  places 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  213 

like  this.  Undergraduate  condemnation  might  rouse  the 
consciences  of  the  trustees,  so  that  money  stained  by  the 
suffering  of  women  and  little  children  should  be  sternly 
refused,  and  outside  people  should  be  roused  to  think  why 
decisions  like  these  are  made." 

His  knees  had  stopped  trembling,  and  his  wrists  felt 
firmer.  A  light  had  come  into  his  eyes,  and  his  voice, 
that  fine,  strong,  boyish  voice  that  would  some  day  know 
even  greater  power  and  greater  tenderness  than  it  was 
capable  of  now,  trembled  and  grew  strong  again  as  he 
went  on  talking.  It  was  eloquent  with  the  feeling  that 
vibrated  there,  for  the  young  scholar  had  wakened  to  a 
vital  sense  of  the  human  problems  with  which  he  was 
dealing.  He  had  started  out  in  the  interest  of  an  abstract 
question.  Since  that  half  hour  in  Mrs.  Appleton's  drawing- 
room  there  had  been  no  abstract  questions  for  him  in  the 
world.  He  had  touched  the  sorrow  of  all  humanity,  and 
was  on  the  track  of  the  joy.  The  face  that  glowed  in  the 
afternoon  light  was  not  the  face  of  a  dreamer,  but  of  a 
thinker,  an  idealist,  a  man  of  will  and  purpose  and  clear 
sight. 

To  the  professor,  the  sight  and  sound  of  all  this  was  like 
the  clutching  of  a  hand  at  his  throat.  That  was  his  child, 
only  yesterday,  it  seemed,  wearing  his  first  pair  of  trousers. 
That  boy  was  swaying  men,  leading,  convincing  them ! 
Mingled  pride  and  shame  and  admiration  and  anger  warred 
in  the  professor's  soul.  Queer  little  thrills  of  delight  coursed 
down  his  backbone.  Little  shudders  of  disgust  made  his 
shoulders  quiver.  He  almost  opened  his  mouth  to  utter 
a  protest,  then  he  bent  his  head  to  listen,  half  converted  by 
his  son.  When  the  lecturer  bowed,  dismissing  his  class, 
Professor  Worthington  passed  out,  not  waiting  for  Henry. 
He  was  too  deeply  moved  to  speak  just  then. 

Henry  rose  and  shut  the  door,  then  came  back  and  bowed 
his  head  upon  his  arms.  He  forgot  his  father,  and  that 
father,  walking  the  streets  alone,  knew  it.  He  forgot  his 
lecture.  He  wanted  to  see,  if  only  for  a  minute,  and  far 


214  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

off,  the  face  of  Annice  Gordon.  He  had  not  condemned 
her  father,  though  he  had  condemned  her  father's  ethics, 
and  his  conscience  was  clear.  Yet  a  foreboding  of  dis- 
aster clouded  his  eyes,  and  he  threw  back  his  head,  his 
nostrils  white  and  strained.  Why  had  he  done  it  ?  He, 
with  his  way  yet  to  win,  had  deliberately  rolled  a  stum- 
bling-block into  his  own  path.  Name,  fame,  his  chances 
of  success,  he  had  risked  them  all  in  suggesting  a  criticism 
of  the  trustees.  He  wished  the  idea  had  never  occurred 
to  him,  and  he  put  his  head  down  upon  the  desk  again. 
He  was  very  tired. 

Professor  Worthington  walked  rapidly  through  the  city, 
his  mind  in  a  tumult.  As  he  had  foreseen,  Henry's 
remarks  had  amounted  to  a  public  condemnation  of  Gor- 
don, though  no  reference  had  been  made  to  him.  A  sense 
of  the  bad  taste  in  this  stung  Alfred  Worthington,  and  yet 
every  nerve  in  his  body  thrilled  with  pride  in  his  son.  He 
looked  about  him.  He  was  passing  the  old  state-house, 
and  the  shadow  of  its  historic  oak  was  on  his  face.  This 
was  his  city,  his.  Passionate  pride  in  her  spires,  her  ivy- 
covered  buildings,  the  very  stones  in  the  streets,  possessed 
him.  It  meant,  in  its  quiet  beauty,  and  the  faith  for  which 
it  stood,  a  larger  self,  a  social  self  incarnate.  Truly  the 
streets  of  Winthrop  had  been  the  highways  bordering  upon 
the  edges  of  an  unseen  kingdom  that  was  waiting  —  and 
here  his  son  had  disgraced  him. 

He  was  in  the  outskirts  of  the  city  now,  walking  rapidly, 
with  the  young  May  wind  in  his  face.  Under  his  feet  the 
sod  was  soft.  Swift  motion  could  not  take  him  beyond 
the  torment  of  feeling  his  own  shadow  fall  between  the 
boy  and  his  love  for  the  boy.  In  his  annoyance  over  the 
practical  outcome  of  this  thing  he  was  haunted  by  those 
larger  moments  of  pure,  boundless  love,  that  gave  all  and 
asked  nothing.  Near  a  farmhouse  he  paused  to  look  back, 
and  he  leaned  for  a  minute  against  a  broken  rail  fence. 
There  lay  his  city,  beautiful  with  all  her  spires,  beyond  the 
meadows  of  misty  green.  The  old  loneliness  that  he  had 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  215 

known  before  the  boy  came,  the  gap  which  neither  his 
friendship  with  his  wife  nor  his  love  for  his  friend  had 
satisfied,  was  strong  upon  him  now.  Henry,  only  Henry, 
had  filled  the  earth  and  air  and  sky. 

A  sound  of  loud  chirping  roused  him.  In  the  fence  at 
his  feet  a  newly  hatched  chicken  was  struggling,  its  foot 
caught  between  a  rail  and  a  stone.  Very  carefully  the 
professor  lifted  the  rail,  and  took  the  little  thing  up  in  his 
hand.  One  leg  hung  limp  and  lame.  Alfred  Worthing- 
ton's  other  hand  closed  over  it,  and  the  tiny  creature 
nestled  close  to  his  fingers  with  soft  sounds  of  content. 
The  touch  of  its  down,  its  appeal  for  protection,  struck 
home  to  the  father's  heart,  and  his  lips  quivered  in  recol- 
lecting that  other  new-born  creature  that  had  once  de- 
manded his  protection,  and  would  never  need  it  any  more. 


ffig^iS^^ 


CHAPTER   XVIII 


ENRY  wns  slowly  pacing  the  garden 
paths,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him. 
That  odour  from  the  box  borders  was  a 
breath  from  the  days  of  his  boyhood. 
It  made  him  one  with  all  the  new 
springing  things  about  him.  This  was 
the  day  after  his  lecture,  and  he  was 
allowing  himself  a  moment  of  rest  after  that  hard  strain. 
He  had  done  his  duty.  He  had  sternly  roused  his  soul 
from  the  lethargy  of  happiness  into  which  it  had  been  sink- 
ing. Now  it  was  his  right  to  dream  again,  and  dreams  are 
sweet.  He  was  wondering  how  Annice  Gordon  would 
look  here  in  this  garden,  standing  by  the  little  silver  poplar, 
which  was  slender  and  tall  like  herself.  Over  twig  and 
stem  showed  the  faintest  possible  ripple  of  pale  green 
against  the  white.  Someway  it  looked  like  Annice. 

A  light  came  into  the  young  man's  face.  Why  had  he 
not  thought  of  that  before  ?  Perhaps  Miss  Gordon  was 
in  the  library  at  this  minute.  She  was  often  there  with 
Mrs.  Appleton.  For  three  days  he  had  not  seen  her,  and  he 
was  ashamed  to  call  again  so  soon.  Besides,  he  had  some 
important  bibliographical  work  to  be  done  immediately.  In 
five  minutes  he  was  striding  impatiently  along  the  sidewalk, 
wondering  why  he  was  so  late.  The  only  person  on  whom 
his  eyes  lighted  as  he  entered  the  library  was  Professor  Pen- 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  217 

rose.  Henry  greeted  him  with  courtesy  emphasized  by  his 
disappointment,  then  turned  to  the  card-catalogue  and  took 
notes  on  a  piece  of  paper.  Lifting  his  eyes,  he  saw,  in  a 
far  corner,  under  a  Gothic  arch,  Annice  sitting  with  the 
light  falling  on  her  hair,  her  face  shining  out  with  distinct- 
ness from  a  dusty  background  of  old  books.  Henry  drew 
a  great  sigh  of  relief  and  went  on  with  his  work. 

When  he  looked  up  again  he  saw  that  Mrs.  Appleton, 
too,  was  working  in  an  alcove  near  by,  with  a  great  pile  of 
books  about  her.  Professor  Penrose  was  talking  to  Annice. 
The  girl  was  listening  intently,  and  her  expression  recorded 
her  change  of  thought.  Henry  fretted  inwardly.  That 
gift  of  sympathy  with  which  she  was  endowed  was  danger- 
ous, after  all,  he  said  to  himself.  There  was  a  chameleon 
quality  about  her  that  turned  her,  for  the  time  being,  into 
something  strangely  akin  to  the  person  with  whom  she  was 
talking.  He  had  seen  her  before  when,  for  the  moment, 
she  seemed  only  another  version  of  Penrose.  It  was  too 
much  to  bear !  With  unutterable  relief  he  heard  the  pro- 
fessor coming  back  to  his  former  position. 

Henry  studied  his  catalogue  in  wrath.  Miss  Gordon 
did  not  know  that  he  was  there,  he  said  to  himself.  She 
would  not  lift  her  eyes.  He  could  detect  her  presence 
without  the  use  of  eye  or  ear.  Her  very  nearness  set  every 
fibre  in  his  body  quivering.  But  she  was  remote,  abstracted, 
deaf,  dumb.  She  did  not  care.  It  had  all  been  a  mistake ! 
He  reflected  with  bitterness  that  she  would  not  look  at  him 
except  when  he  was  talking.  It  was  only  an  intellectual 
interest  that  had  lighted  her  eyes.  Henry,  for  the  moment, 
was  distinctly  jealous  of  his  own  ideas.  Utterly  indifferent 
to  him,  apparently,  when  he  was  silent,  she  wakened  eagerly 
if  he  made  some  remark  about  social  right  and  wrong,  and 
that  subtle  beauty  came  back  to  her  face.  He  liked  to 
stimulate  her,  to  rouse  her.  He  could  play  on  her  as  a 
man  plays  on  a  stringed  instrument,  and  colour  flashed  for 
him  in  rhythmic  beats  across  her  face,  for  thought  seemed 
half  physical  with  her.  Her  beauty  had  become  a  task  for 


218  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

him.  To  evoke  that  hidden  charm,  pursue  it  while  it  fled, 
brought  into  his  intercourse  with  her  the  fascination  of 
pursuit.  He  knew,  in  a  way,  that  his  remarks  were  keen 
and  penetrating,  but  he  was  not  content  with  appreciation. 
With  most  people  he  was  willing  to  be  a  voice,  a  mere 
abstraction.  He  was  conscious  of  an  irritated  desire  to 
make  Miss  Gordon  know  that  he  was  human.  He  would 
rouse  her  now  from  her  revery.  Scattering  his  notes  upon  a 
convenient  table,  he  hastily  crossed  to  her  corner  of  the  room. 

"  May  I  interrupt  ?  "  he  asked,  standing  humbly  before 
her.  "  I  only  wanted  to  see  whether  it  is  Mill  or  Marshall 
you  are  reading." 

Professor  Penrose  looked  on,  pitying  and  understanding. 
He  was  a  philosopher,  and  he  could  not  fail  to  comprehend 
Henry's  growing  fondness  for  tea,  and  his  abnormal  fastidi- 
ousness about  his  clothes.  Ought  he  to  warn  the  boy  of 
the  girl's  mental  malady  ?  The  professor's  mind  was 
clouded  with  a  doubt.  Meanwhile,  it  was  his  duty  to 
shield  her,  in  case  any  fresh  outbreak  should  come.  When- 
ever it  was  possible,  he  was  near.  He  could  not  tell 
Juliette.  How  much  or  how  little  she  knew  regarding 
the  sojourn  at  Smith's  he  dared  not  conjecture.  The  mere 
fact  was  in  her  possession;  the  right  explanation,  he  was 
sure,  was  not.  Juliette's  mind,  he  confessed  to  himself, 
was  lacking  in  a  certain  delicacy,  and  she  probably  attrib- 
uted to  longing  for  adventure  this  vagary  of  an  unsettled 
mind.  The  entire  responsibility,  therefore,  was  his. 

Mrs.  Appleton,  too,  looked  at  the  picture  under  the  Gothic 
arch,  and  her  face  beamed  with  satisfaction.  She  had 
never  done  a  better  bit  of  work  than  that  in  her  life,  she 
said,  ruthlessly  shutting  out  even  the  Creator  from  a  share 
in  the  credit.  Henry  and  his  father  ought  to  marry  money 
—  she  could  not  think  of  them  apart,  even  here.  They  had 
gone  shabby  long  enough,  and  the  Worthingtons  were  not 
made  for  shabbiness.  Mrs.  Appleton  caught  the  look  with 
which  Annice  greeted  the  young  man,  and  she  went  back 
to  her  notes  in  disapproval. 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  219 

"  Annice  is  too  transparent  to  make  him  as  miserable  as 
he  ought  to  be,"  she  reflected.  "  I  wish  the  girl  could 
flirt!  He  ought  to  be  humbled  in  the  dust  for  his  super- 
ciliousness." 

Annice  was  reading  an  exquisitely  printed  copy  of  Au- 
cassin  and  Nicolette.  She  had  managed  to  greet  Henry 
with  a  glance  of  surprise,  though  he  had  not  made  a 
movement  since  entering  the  room  of  which  she  had  not 
been  keenly  aware.  Now  the  two  brown  heads  were  bend- 
ing together  over  the  old  romance.  The  librarian  groaned. 
Two  pairs  of  hands  at  once  touching  that  precious  vellum  ! 
He  had  given  it  to  the  girl  reluctantly.  Now  he  leaned 
his  worn  face  with  its  shadow  of  gray  hair  over  his  register 
again.  That  books  should  be  used  at  all  was  a  sore  trial 
to  him.  He  cared  for  them  with  a  bodily  passion.  To 
touch  them,  handle  them,  get  the  responsive  thrill  that 
came  from  passing  one's  fingers  down  the  back  of  a  tall 
calf-bound  volume,  that  was  one  thing;  to  tamper  with 
the  inside  was  another.  And  to  see  these  objects  of  his 
passion  given  into  strange  hands  brought  him  the  nearest 
approach  to  a  tragic  mood  that  he  had  ever  known. 

Together  they  read  a  page  from  the  old  tale  of  love  in 
the  month  of  May,  a  story  where  sorrow  and  laughter  both 
turn  into  sweetest  song.  Its  quivering  emotion  passed  into 
the  young  man's  heart,  and  he  clenched  his  hands  to  shut 
temptation  out.  He  wanted  to  take  the  girl  in  his  arms,  hold 
her  close  to  him,  protect  her  from  the  winds  of  heaven  and 
from  the  eyes  of  men,  master  the  mischief  in  her,  subdue 
her,  kneel  at  her  feet  and  worship  her.  That  quiver  in  her 
under  lip  had  told  him  all  he  wished  to  know. 

"  It  is  very  attractive  binding,"  he  said  in  haste. 

"Yes,"  said  Annice. 

Sadly  Penrose  looked  over  toward  them. 

"  Quel  giorno  piu  non  vi  leggemmo  avante," 
he  quoted. 

For  him  it  was  a  dull,  unimaginative  moment,  when  the 
senses  seemed  impervious  to  the  finer  influences  of  life  and 


220  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

beauty ;  the  soul  dead  and  uncreative.  No  new  apprecia- 
tion could  come  to  him  now,  he  said  wistfully,  as  he 
watched  the  lovers  in  the  alcove.  In  this  insensate  mo- 
ment he  had  lost  those  hidden  avenues  of  communication 
between  himself  and  that  wonderful  outside  world  of  beauti- 
ful things  and  beautiful  people.  It  had  touched  him  with 
a  thousand  ringers.  From  him,  henceforth,  he  said  drearily, 
there  could  be  no  response. 

When  Henry  had  left  her,  Annice  leaned  back  in  her 
chair  and  closed  her  eyes.  The  air  seemed  folding  her  in 
arms  of  rest.  There  were  no  problems,  there  was  only 
peace.  The  fulfilment  of  life  was  there,  in  her  pulses,  in 
these  causeless  tears  trying  to  force  open  her  tightly  closed 
eyes.  The  joy  was  so  keen  that  it  was  pain.  She  could 
hear  the  oriole's  passionate  song  floating  in  through  an 
ivy-covered  window  just  beyond  her,  and  she  opened  her 
eyes  to  look.  The  tendrils  of  the  vine,  like  bits  of  window- 
tracery  come  to  life,  were  swaying  in  the  breeze.  The  old 
fear  of  beauty,  always  associated  with  grass  and  flowers  and 
the  warmth  of  summer  air,  stung  her,  and  she  gazed  at  the 
corner-stone  of  the  trefoils  until  her  lips  grew  as  sharp  as 
their  unbending  edges.  Was  she  playing  deserter  again  ? 
If  the  measure  of  desire  was  also  the  measure  of  wrong, 
how  great  was  her  present  sin  !  Through  the  golden  mist 
made  of  the  tears  in  her  eyes  and  the  encompassing  sun- 
shine, she  saw  the  iron  hand  of  duty,  pointing  out  toward 
Gordon  Heights.  To  put  all  she  cared  for  behind  her, 
and  to  flee  into  the  righteous  paths  of  the  things  she  did 
not  want,  this  was  virtue. 

They  were  days  of  keen  life  that  followed  for  Henry. 
It  was  his  first  passion,  boyish,  manly,  intense.  There 
were  minutes  of  great  happiness  when  Annice  looked  at 
him.  There  were  minutes  of  torment  when  she  looked 
away.  No  trace  of  coquettishness  existed  in  the  girl's 
nature,  but  Annice  and  her  conscience  together  played 
worse  havoc  with  Henry's  nerves  than  coquetry  could  ever 
have  done.  The  complete  surrender  of  one  minute  to  the 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  221 

delight  of  his  presence  was  succeeded  so  swiftly  by  the 
coldness  of  remembered  resolution  that  the  young  man's 
eyes  were  eloquent  with  bewilderment  and  pain.  Half- 
way through  a  confidential  account  of  her  childhood,  she 
stopped,  one  day,  refused  to  go  on,  and  made  so  apparent 
her  wish  to  be  alone  that  Henry  went  away  at  once. 
Through  the  open  window  she  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  an 
old  man,  slightly  bent,  walking  with  unsteady  steps. 
Everywhere  the  reproach  of  gray  hair  like  her  father's 
followed  her.  Everywhere  the  old  pain  thrust  itself  into 
present  joy.  She  went  to  the  window  now  and  looked 
after  Henry  with  wistful  eyes.  His  coming  brought  the 
daylight  to  her ;  his  going  took  the  light  away.  She  knew 
that  she  lived  only  in  the  minutes  when  he  was  with  her, 
but  she  would  not  see  him  again,  she  said,  setting  her  lips 
together.  She  would  stem  the  great,  incoming  tide;  she 
would  bridle  the  whirlwind ;  she  would  let  Henry  go. 
Strong  in  her  resolution,  she  pressed  her  forehead  against 
the  window-sash.  Would  he  come  again  to-morrow  ? 

He  did  come  again  to-morrow,  but  Miss  Gordon  was 
away.  She  had  gone  shopping  at  five  o'clock,  forgetting 
her  own  experience  of  the  shop-girl's  weariness  at  that 
hour.  Henry,  after  a  brief  conversation  with  Mrs.  Apple- 
ton,  to  whom  his  abstraction  afforded  welcome  amusement, 
went  away  with  a  leaden  sense  of  irrevocable  loss.  What 
did  it  mean  ?  What  was  this  impalpable  barrier  that 
Annice  was  thrusting  between  them  ?  One  priceless  half- 
hour  was  gone  from  out  the  hours  of  his  life.  Through 
all  eternity  he  could  not  overtake  the  joy  that  might  have 
been  his  in  that  brief  time. 

That  night  he  slept  but  little.  Noises  that  he  had  never 
noticed  before  played  on  his  nerves.  A  mouse  was  gnaw- 
ing somewhere  in  the  wall.  A  dog  barked  at  intervals  out 
on  the  street.  Henry  tossed,  with  wide-opened  eyes,  upon 
his  bed.  He  was  base,  small,  mean,  unworthy  of  her, 
said  his  accusing  inner  consciousness,  but  what  in  the 
world  did  she  want  to  treat  a  man  like  that  for  ?  He  was 


222  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

not  fit  to  touch  the  hem  of  her  garment,  he  said  to  himself 
as  he  went  off"  to  sleep  at  last  —  but  oh,  if  he  only  could  ! 
Sleep  was  welcome,  when  it  deigned  to  come,  for  every 
night  the  same  dream  returned.  It  was  Annice,  Annice 
clinging  to  his  hand  for  protection.  That  touch  seemed 
always  to  be  on  his  fingers  when  he  woke. 

Henry  carried  his  love  into  his  class-room  in  those  days. 
Between  the  questions  that  he  asked  his  students  he  found 
himself  wondering  if  any  coming  minute  would  be  so 
sweet  as  that  last  one  of  perfect  and  speechless  understand- 
ing that  had  come  in  a  brief  interview  two  days  after 
Annice's  attempt  to  run  away  from  him.  His  voice 
followed  his  mood,  and  he  talked  of  the  tariff  in  tones  of 
passionate  entreaty,  discussed  the  war-tax  in  accents  of 
alternate  pleading  and  despair.  Listen  to  what  he  would, 
he  heard  only  her  voice,  and  that  rare,  individual  laugh. 
Look  where  he  would,  he  saw  only  the  outline  of  that  little 
head,  beloved  above  all  earthly  things.  His  passion  gave 
power  to  his  work.  Strangers  who  visited  his  class  said 
that  young  Mr.  Worthington  was  brilliant.  His  students 
wakened  under  a  subtle  stimulus  that  nobody  understood, 
and  spent  long  hours  in  the  library  in  sudden  zeal  for 
learning.  They  did  not  know  that  their  instructor  some- 
times read  nowadays  with  his  book  upside  down. 

"  What  ails  the  boy  ?  "  asked  Benedict  Warren,  dropping 
into  the  library  one  day.  "  I  met  him  on  the  street,  and 
he  didn't  look  at  me.  Stalked  on  with  his  eyes  fixed." 

Professor  Worthington  looked  over  his  glasses. 

"  A  girl,"  he  said  briefly. 

Warren's  jaw  dropped. 

"Shut  him  up  in  his  room,"  he  suggested.  "He 
oughtn't  to  be  thinking  of  such  things  for  ten  years  yet." 

"  He  is  twenty-six,"  said  Alfred  Worthington,  shaking 
his  head,  "  old  enough  for  anything,  I'm  afraid.  Only  " 
—  he  paused  —  "  if  it  had  been  somebody  else." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  her  ?  "  asked  Warren,  seating 
himself  and  crossing  his  legs.  He  still  had  his  hat  on. 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  223 

"Why  —  nothing  whatever,"  admitted,  the  professor. 
u  She's  a  charming  young  woman.  I  presume  it's  just  the 
notion  of  it.  She's  Miss  Gordon  —  Gordon's  daughter. 
I  admit  there  are  families  with  which  I  should  rather  see 
my  own  allied." 

Warren  lighted  his  pipe. 

"  The  world  would  have  been  a  great  deal  better  off  if 
there  hadn't  been  any  girls  in  it,"  he  observed,  "or  chil- 
dren either,"  he  added  meditatively.  "  You've  had  more 
bother  out  of  that  young  one  of  yours  than  he's  worth, 
Worthington." 

But  his  only  answer  was  that  old,  contented,  exasper- 
ating smile  on  his  friend's  face. 

Henry  told  Miss  Gordon  one  day  about  the  trouble  with 
his  father  that  had  saddened  this  whole  winter  for  them 
both.  She  listened  intently,  and  the  likeness  to  her  stern- 
faced  grandmother  deepened  as  she  heard  the  tale  of 
obedience  to  conviction. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  told  me,"  she  said.  "  To  see  any 
one  do  the  thing  he  believes  to  be  right  is  inspiration." 

As  Henry  looked  at  her  he  was  almost  glad  for  all  that 
misunderstanding,  for  the  pain  had  slipped  away,  and 
through  the  jangling  and  discord,  love  came,  like  the  be- 
ginning of  music.  He  was  in  a  region  of  great  harmony, 
held  safe  from  fret  and  jar.  They  were  silent.  Outside, 
the  world  was  full  of  rain  and  the  skies  were  dull,  but  for 
them  there  was  glory  in  the  air  and  breathing  was  intoxica- 
tion. Mrs.  Appleton,  who  was  somewhere  in  the  room, 
coughed  slightly  —  she  had  perceived  that  it  was  time  — 
and  the  spell  was  broken. 

"I  am  going  home  next  week,"  said  Annice,  abruptly. 

The  speechless  dismay  of  Henry's  face  alarmed  her. 
How  could  she  go  on  to  say  what  she  had  tried  to  say  ? 
It  meant  thrusting  aside  the  hand  stretched  out  to  help 
her.  It  meant  saying  good-bye  to  the  human  being  whose 
presence  brought  her  the  only  sense  of  home  there  was  for 
her  in  the  world. 


224  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

"  I  have  taken  a  vow,"  she  said,  smiling,  but  looking 
very  determined  and  erect.  "  It  isn't  a  very  novel  kind, 
only  I  mean  to  keep  it.  It  is  only  to  stay  with  my  father 
and  take  care  of  him,  always." 

"  That  would  be  very  satisfactory,"  said  Henry,  with  a 
laugh,  "  only  your  work  might  possibly  be  interfered  with 
by  other  claims." 

"  Never !  "  said  Annice,  so  sternly  that  the  young  man 
was  alarmed.  He  could  say  nothing.  There  never  was 
any  chance  to  see  Annice  alone ! 

Mrs.  Appleton  was  smiling  behind  her  book. 

"  I  was  wrong  about  the  flirting,"  she  said,  "  only  girls 
of  to-day  have  found  a  new  way  to  do  it." 

Henry's  waking  thoughts  that  night  were  filled  with 
reproaches  of  Annice. 

"Women  are  selfish,  anyway,"  he  groaned,  clasping 
his  pillow  in  pain.  "  They  are  morbid  and  unhealthy. 
Nothing  less  than  misery  contents  them.  They  all  call 
unhappiness  a  virtue,  and  they  care  for  nothing  but  their 
own  souls." 

The  thought  that  his  lady  could  meditate  devoting  her- 
self to  a  duty  from  which  he  was  shut  out  stung  him 
cruelly.  She  had  actually  been  absent-minded,  thinking 
of  her  own  affairs  instead  of  his  !  He  took  refuge  in 
lofty  musings  concerning  renunciation  on  his  own  part. 
He  would  win  name  and  fame,  and  Miss  Gordon  should 
know  what  she  had  lost.  He  would  devote  himself  to  his 
father,  that  father  who  had  suffered  so  for  him.  But  sleep 
brought  him  the  old  dreams  again,  and  with  waking  came 
the  fierce  longing  just  to  see  Annice,  if  even  a  long  way  off. 

He  could  not  work  that  day ;  he  could  not  eat.  His 
brain  was  muddled,  and  he  dismissed  his  classes  without 
giving  any  explanation.  Determined  not  to  go  near  his 
tormentor,  he  started  for  a  long  tramp,  goaded  by  energy 
for  which  he  could  find  no  outlet,  stung  by  fear  of  loss. 
Outside  the  city  he  climbed  Long  Meadow  Hill.  The 
world  below  him  was  a  spring  mist  of  faint  blue  and  early 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  225 

green.  In  the  distance  the  sea  touched  the  sky-line. 
Nearer,  the  grass  of  the  marshes  met  the  sea.  The  song 
of  orioles  and  of  bobolinks,  the  odour  of  apple-blossoms  and 
of  lilacs  came  up  to  him  on  the  wind.  He  threw  himself 
flat  upon  the  ground  where  he  could  see  only  the  outline 
of  green  grass  against  the  sky. 

Oh,  these  wasted  moments  when  Annice  was  not  near ! 
The  perfect  joy  of  the  brief  time  with  her  made  the  hours 
seem  empty,  cold,  and  leaden.  Through  these  golden  days 
of  spring,  life  was  slipping  through  his  fingers  in  an  unreal 
existence  that  knew  no  significance.  He  seized  the  grass 
under  his  hands.  How  could  he  strain  from  each  minute 
the  utmost  that  it  could  yield  ?  In  this  world  of  men  and 
women  and  of  budding  trees,  life,  exquisite  life  was  going 
on,  and  he  was  missing  it.  The  wish  to  penetrate,  to 
know,  was  strong  upon  him,  to  break  through  the  with- 
holding curtain.  Then,  lying  there  upon  the  grass  and 
dreaming  of  the  days  to  come,  the  thought  of  death 
possessed  him  with  sudden  fear.  It  had  a  meaning 
now  that  it  had  never  had  before,  that  going  out  of  the 
vivid  sunlit  world,  with  its  faint  blue  hills,  and  the 
sound  of  peepers  in  the  marshes.  It  was  horrible.  He 
lay  very  still,  watching  the  slow  white  clouds  against 
the  blue. 

Suddenly  he  started  to  his  feet.  He  must  know  his 
fate  to-day.  He  would  go  down  and  face  Annice  Gordon. 
He  would  take  her  hands  in  his  and  keep  them  there. 
As  he  strode  down  the  hill,  his  face  was  white,  even 
to  the  lips.  Once  in  the  road,  he  discovered  that  last- 
year's  burdocks  were  clinging  to  his  clothes,  and  he  picked 
them  ofF  slowly,  smiling  as  he  did  it.  This  was  not 
calling  attire  !  He  strode  hurriedly  along  the  dusty  road 
into  the  city,  nodding  absent-mindedly  to  his  students, 
passing  as  in  a  dream  under  the  arching  branches  over  the 
common. 

He  spoke  very  abruptly  when  he  found  Annice.     His 
face  was  working  in  his  strong  emotion  as  she  came  in. 
B 


226  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

"  You  cannot  go  out  of  my  life  that  way,"  he  said, 
grasping  both  her  hands  in  his  strong,  warm  palms. 

She  drew  them  swiftly  away. 

"  I  must,"  she  said.  Her  eyes  begged  him  not  to  tempt 
her.  He  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak,  and  he  left  her, 
looking  as  white  as  Antigone,  and  as  firm. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

UMOUR  was  busy  in  South  Winthrop. 
The  academic  city  was  alive  with  whis- 
pers. In  faculty  circles,  especially,  ex- 
citement was  great.  Henry  Worthington 
had  perverted  his  office  to  the  teaching 
of  some  wicked  doctrine  —  the  faculty- 
ladies  who  carried  the  reports  were  not 
sure  what.  He  had  made,  in  his  class-room,  a  direct  attack 
on  Mr.  Gordon,  and  had  denounced  dry-goods  dealing  as 
dishonest,  calling  it  "organized  robbery  of  the  working 
classes."  The  winter's  gossip  that  had  followed  the  dis- 
covery of  Mr.  Gordon's  connection  with  Smith's  was  re- 
vived. The  reported  slander  roused  indignation  in  the 
bosoms  of  his  colleagues  in  church  and  club.  Ladies  of 
limited  wealth,  who  were  in  the  habit  of  stealing  in  secret 
over  to  Smith's  on  bargain-days,  felt  their  finer  instincts 
outraged.  It  was  ungentlemanly,  they  said ;  but  then, 
Mr.  Worthington  was  young.  He  would  learn  better 
when  he  grew  up.  That  groundless  optimism  of  age  which 
hopes  for  youth  wisdom  like  its  own,  when  a  sufficient 
number  of  years  has  passed,  made  excuses  for  Henry. 
Meanwhile,  the  reports  took  a  darker  tinge.  Young 
Mr.  Worthington,  it  was  whispered,  had  called  Mr.  Gordon 
a  scoundrel.  The  faculty-ladies  were  unanimous  in  de- 
manding a  public  apology.  He  ought  to  make  one  to  his 


228  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

father,  too.  Was  not  the  gift  denounced  by  him  the  prop- 
erty of  his  father's  department  ?  Had  he  not  said  from  his 
desk  that  no  right-minded  person  would  use  money  like 
that  ? 

"  It  must  come  from  associating  with  those  dreadful 
foreigners,"  said  Mrs.  Edward  N.  Bellingham,  talking 
busily  to  her  caller,  and  fanning  herself  with  her  sandal- 
wood  fan.  "  I  knew  that  no  good  could  come  of  his 
going  over  there.  It  told  on  his  manners.  I  could  see 
that  at  Mrs.  Appleton's  dinner.  I  hope  that  Professor 
Worthington  realizes  now  the  consequences  of  thinking 
that  Winthrop's  educational  advantages  were  not  good 
enough  for  Henry.  I  should  like  to  see  the  city  in  Europe 
or  in  America  where  they  can  be  equalled  !  " 

But  Mrs.  Bellingham  never  did. 

Naturally,  Henry  and  his  father  heard  none  of  these 
reports.  The  end  of  the  year  was  approaching,  and  they 
applied  themselves  with  vigour  to  their  accumulating  work. 
They  went  their  way,  outwardly  at  peace.  The  faculty- 
ladies,  when  they  met  father  and  son  upon  the  street, 
lowered  their  voices.  Alfred  Worthington's  colleagues, 
chatting  at  the  corner  of  the  campus,  or  whispering  in  the 
library,  changed  the  subject  when  he  drew  near.  With 
Benedict  Warren,  all  was  different.  His  fellow-trustees 
came  to  sit  on  his  verandah  and  give  him  points  concern- 
ing the  Worthington  scandal.  From  each  new  expedition 
to  the  city,  he  returned  laden  with  new  rumours.  He 
watched  Alfred  Worthington's  face  anxiously  when  they 
were  together.  He  made  a  few  inquiries  of  Henry  con- 
cerning the  unfortunate  lecture.  Hardest  of  all,  he  nerved 
himself  to  a  little  political  work  among  the  trustees.  Surely, 
he  grumbled,  one  May  morning,  as  he  set  out  in  a  fine 
drizzle,  life  grew  harder  as  one  grew  older,  and  instead  of 
more  chances  to  rest  one  got  only  more  demands  for  hard 
work. 

It  was  a  queer  figure  that  presented  itself  at  the  elegant 
doorway  of  the  Hon.  Dwight  S.  Sanford  that  morning. 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  229 

Benedict  Warren  had  decided  that  he  was  the  most  influ- 
ential of  the  trustees,  and  must  be  consulted  first.  The 
visitor  put  down  his  huge,  shapeless  umbrella  as  he  rang 
the  bell.  His  shabby  coat  was  buttoned  up  close  to  his 
lean  neck,  showing,  where  the  lapel  was  turned  back,  how 
much  the  garment  had  faded.  His  trousers  were  turned 
up  at  the  bottom.  Ushered  into  Mr.  Sanford's  smoking- 
room,  he  still  clung  to  his  umbrella,  and  his  footprints,  as 
well  as  those  of  his  dog,  were  visible  on  the  polished  floor. 

Mr.  Sanford  greeted  his  visitor  with  deference.  To  the 
newly  rich,  Benedict  Warren's  approval  meant  much,  for 
the  sanction  of  his  name  was  social  benediction.  Bene- 
dict Warren  stated  his  errand  very  briefly.  He  wanted 
Mr.  Sanford  to  speak  a  good  word  for  young  Worthington, 
who  would  probably  be  brought  up  as  a  case  for  discipline 
at  the  June  meeting  of  the  trustees.  Mr.  Sanford  shook 
his  round  fat  head.  He  was  a  portly  gentleman,  with  thin 
white  hair  making  a  fringe  about  his  bald  crown. 

41  I'd  do  anything  in  the  world  to  oblige  you,  Warren," 
he  said,  tilting  his  chair  back  at  a  dangerous  angle,  and 
clasping  his  plump  hands  in  his  lap,  "  but  there  isn't  any 
doubt  in  my  mind  that  young  Worthington  ought  to  go. 
He's  bringing  forward  dangerous  doctrine.  That  isn't  the 
brand  of  political  economy  that  he's  paid  to  teach' in  Win- 
throp  University." 

Mr.  Sanford's  expression  was  mild,  despite  the  ferocity 
of  his  remarks. 

u  But  he's  only  a  cub,"  remarked  Warren,  pacifically. 
"  He's  too  young  to  know  what  he's  about." 

"Then  it's  time  we  had  somebody  in  that  chair  who 
does  know  what  he's  about,"  asserted  Mr.  Sanford,  with 
vehemence.  "  I  tell  you,  Warren,  you  don't  realize  the 
importance  of  this  thing.  All  the  boys  in  the  city  are 
rushing  into  college  these  days.  It  wasn't  so  when  I  was 
young,  and  it  don't  make  the  kind  of  man  that  was  made 
then.  Most  of  'em  it  unfits  for  active  life,  anyway,  with- 
out having  this  new  kind  of  nonsense  taught  'em.  I  tell 


230  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

you,  when  it  comes  to  having  doctrine  against  the  established 
order  of  things  crammed  down  their  throats,  it's  a  serious 
matter.  Now  that  attack  on  Gordon  —  " 

Mr.  Sanford  spoke  with  the  reverence  of  a  man  who 
had  just  thrust  himself  into  a  prominent  position  in  the 
established  order  of  things.  Warren  interrupted  him. 
He  was  conscious  of  having  used  a  wrong  plea,  and 
he  was  sulky  because  of  Mr.  Sanford's  insubordination. 
Warren  had  seen  the  day  when  he  could  turn  this  man 
round  his  little  finger. 

"  The  boy  says  he  never  mentioned  Gordon,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Sanford  placed  his  chair  firmly  upon  four  legs  and 
stared  at  his  visitor. 

"  I  have  it  from  a  member  of  his  class,  sir,"  he  stated, 
emphasizing  each  word  by  a  finger-tap  upon  his  knee, 
"  that  he  said  from  behind  his  desk  in  St.  Edmund's  Hall, 
that  money  like  Gordon's  was  not  fit  to  touch.  He  ought 
to  be  shut  up  for  slander.  To  my  mind,  the  sooner  he 
gets  out  of  that  place,  the  better  for  all  parties  concerned." 

"  I  don't  care  a  hang  about  the  business,"  said  Benedict 
Warren,  rising,  "only  — "  he  hesitated  a  minute,  failed  to 
finish  his  sentence,  and  went  dejectedly  away.  Things 
were  beginning  to  look  serious.  Henry  had  made  a  worse 
mess  than  he  had  supposed,  and  Henry's  father  would  have 
to  suffer  the  consequences.  From  this  first  disastrous  in- 
terview he  had  learned  at  least  one  lesson :  hereafter  he 
would  try  to  adapt  the  argument  to  the  man.  He  called 
next  on  Dr.  Alison,  pastor  of  the  largest  church  of  the 
city,  and  president  of  the  Board  of  Trustees.  The  doctor 
was  well-informed  in  regard  to  the  matter,  and  more  severe 
than  Mr.  Sanford  had  been.  Again  Warren  pleaded  for 
the  son  of  his  friend. 

"  It  was  only  a  blunder,"  he  said.  "  We  ought  to  give 
him  another  chance.  He'll  outgrow  it." 

"  A  blunder,"  remarked  Dr.  Alison,  impressively,  one 
large  white  finger  thrust  into  the  bosom  of  his  clerical  coat, 
"  is  a  crime." 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  231 

"  But  that  kind  of  work  ought  to  be  in  your  line," 
remarked  Benedict  Warren.  "  As  I  understand  it,  young 
Worthington  is  striking  out  for  the  benefit  of  the  poor. 
He  seems  to  believe  that  setting  people  to  think  about  the 
methods  of  gaining  money  will  ultimately  result  in  a  light- 
ening of  the  burdens  laid  on  destitute  wage-earners.  Seems 
to  me  that  kind  of  thing  ought  to  appeal  to  the  clergy." 

Dr.  Alison  bestowed  on  his  guest  a  benevolently  con- 
descending smile. 

"  Have  you  never  observed,  Mr.  Warren,"  he  inquired, 
"  that  our  Lord  never  tried  to  disturb  the  existing  order  of 
things  ?  4 1  came  not  to  destroy,  but  to  fulfil.' ' 

"  Doing  as  you  would  be  done  by  might  amount  to  a 
disturbance  of  the  existing  order  of  things,"  remarked 
Benedict  Warren,  dryly.  He  took  his  leave.  The  clergy- 
man looked  after  him  with  pity.  Perhaps  Bible  arguments 
were  only  wasted  on  a  man  who  never  came  to  church. 
Benedict  Warren  smiled  humorously  as  he  strolled  down 
the  street,  neglecting  to  put  up  his  umbrella,  and  letting 
the  fine  rain  fall  on  his  old  brown  hat. 

"So  the  dominie  thinks  a  blunder  is  a  crime,  does  he?" 
he  meditated  to  himself.  "  I  hope  he  will  live  to  commit 
one ! " 

Lawyer  Denison,  whom  Warren  visited  in  his  office, 
knew  nothing  of  the  matter. 

"Look  here,  Warren,"  he  said,  glancing  up  from  the 
papers  he  was  examining,  "  I  haven't  heard  anything  about 
this.  If  you  will  make  a  note  of  it,  I'll  try  to  see  about 
it  when  I  get  through  these.  I'm  up  to  my  ears  in  the 
Wendover  murder  case." 

He  went  back  to  his  work.  Warren  looked  wistfully 
round  the  room,  whose  furniture  consisted  of  hard  chairs 
and  of  pigeon-holes  full  of  labelled  documents.  The  thin, 
bent  little  man,  with  bright  eyes  too  near  together,  was 
going  to  be  of  little  use  to  him. 

"  Well,"  observed  Warren,  at  last,  "  I  only  wanted  to 
know  your  views.  If  you  haven't  got  any,  I  s'pose  there 


232  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

may  be  difficulty  about  that.  That  young  man  has  been 
saying  foolish  things  in  his  class-room.  The  general  opin- 
ion is  that  he'd  better  be  asked  to  leave  the  university. 
Now,  I  don't  think  so.  Nine  men  out  of  any  ten  are 
against  me,  but  I  am  not  convinced  that  I'm  wrong. 
Taking  his  youth  into  account,  and  considering  the  stand- 
ing the  family  had  always  had  —  " 

"  Revolver  with  one  chamber  loaded  found  in  his  coat 
pocket,"  observed  the  lawyer,  gazing  at  his  visitor  with 
brilliant  eyes,  but  not  seeing  him.  "Money  to  the  amount 
of —  Hello  !  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  " 

But  Benedict  Warren  was  already  thumping  his  way 
downstairs,  feeling  damp  and  discouraged.  He  made  four 
more  calls.  The  opposition  to  his  own  view  of  the  matter 
naturally  strengthened  him  in  his  own  conviction,  and  he 
began  to  think  of  Henry  with  reluctant  admiration.  The 
boy  had  been  plucky,  at  any  rate.  Crossing  the  common 
on  his  way  home,  he  met  Mr.  Gordon. 

"  Morning  !  "  said  Benedict  Warren. 

"  Good  morning,"  replied  the  merchant,  with  dignified 
cordiality. 

"  Better  not  tackle  him,"  thought  Warren.  "  He's  too 
much  interested,  and  he's  not  the  kind  of  man  to  love  his 
enemies  on  week  days." 

But  Mr.  Gordon  did  not  wait.  He  came  confidentially 
to  Benedict  Warren's  side,  and  got  his  new  gloves  wet 
grasping  the  lapel  of  that  gentleman's  old  brown  coat. 

"  Warren,"  he  asked  in  a  quick  whisper,  "  have  you 
heard  anything  about  an  attack  young  Worthington  has 
made  on  me  in  public  ?  " 

Warren  looked  up  at  his  neighbour's  shining  silk  hat, 
then  at  the  pale  blue  eyes,  which  turned  uneasily  away. 
Often,  in  looking  at  Mr.  Gordon  hastily,  one  caught  him 
in  an  attempt  to  arrange  his  expression  appropriately. 

"  He  hasn't  made  any  attack  on  you,"  said  Benedict 
Warren.  "  He's  a  gentleman." 

"  Unmistakably    he   has,"    insisted    Mr.    Gordon.      His 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  233 

grieved  and  benevolent  expression  was  there  at  last.  "  He 
has  made  my  gift  to  the  university  the  occasion  of  a  lec- 
ture denouncing  —  " 

"  The  boy  never  mentioned  you,  Gordon,  never  alluded 
to  you  in  any  way,"  interrupted  Warren.  "  He  told  me 
so  himself." 

"Not  only  that,"  continued  Gordon,  unconvinced  —  no 
Gordon  had  ever  been  convinced  by  any  one  else  —  "he 
took  occasion  to  recall  my  dealing  in  the  flour-trust  a  few 
years  ago,  and  to  say  that  the  action  of  trusts  was  unscrup- 
ulous and  full  of  corruption." 

The  two  men  were  walking  side  by  side  now  along  one 
of  the  wet  paths  of  the  common.  A  little  stream  of  water 
from  Mr.  Gordon's  umbrella,  held  entirely  over  himself, 
trickled  down  on  his  companion's  ear. 

"  Henry  Worthington  never  knew  anything  about  your 
connection  with  that  deal  until  his  lecture  was  over,"  as- 
serted Warren,  triumphantly.  "  I  had  the  pleasure  of  tell- 
ing him  about  it  myself  only  day  before  yesterday.  From 
all  I  can  gather,  he  simply  made  some  remarks  about  retail 
dry-goods  dealing  as  it  is  managed  at  present  in  certain 
places,  and  his  objections  to  it  were  first  connected  with 
you  outside  the  class-room.  That's  not  his  fault,  and  if 
the  shoe  fits  you'll  have  to  put  it  on.  If  he  criticised  the 
kind  of  shady  methods  used  in  that  place  of  yours  on 
Dowden  Avenue,  he  probably  said  only  what  was  just,  and 
you  know  it,  Gordon." 

The  discussion  that  followed,  as  hot  as  it  was  brief,  did 
not  concern  Henry  Worthington.  It  ended  in  Mr.  Gor- 
don's turning  abruptly  away  without  taking  leave,  his  face 
red  with  indignation.  His  ears  were  tingling  with  Warren's 
last  words. 

"  You  can't  do  it,  Gordon,"  he  had  said,  with  exasperating 
calmness.  "  You  can't  set  up  to  be  a  saint  and  use  all  the 
tricks  of  a  knave,  too.  You've  got  to  choose.  If  the 
public  recognizes  this  fact,  you  can't  blame  it." 

Benedict  Warren  stopped  to  light  his  pipe.     Then  he 


234  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

walked  slowly  home,  inwardly  penitent,  in  spite  of  the  little 
grin  of  satisfaction  on  his  face.  He  reviewed  his  last 
remarks,  and  confessed  to  himself  that  he  had  not  been 
born  a  politician. 

He  pinned  his  failing  hopes  now  to  the  June  trustee- 
meeting.  He  would  do  what  he  could  at  that.  When  the 
day  came  he  arrived,  five  minutes  late.  Twenty-three 
gray  heads  were  gathered  round  the  great  bare  table  in  the 
official  chamber  at  St.  Cuthbert's  Hall.  Beyond  them, 
open  windows  let  in  the  sweet  June  air,  and  the  smell  of 
new  hay  floated  up  with  it.  Somebody,  a  long  way  off, 
was  running  a  lawn-mower.  Benedict  Warren  nodded  to 
Dr.  Alison,  who  was  occupying  the  chair  with  his  usual 
dignity.  A  murmur  of  surprise  and  of  pleasure  ran  through 
the  room  as  he  entered.  Spite  of  his  usual  absence  from 
these  meetings  he  had  been  retained  a  member  of  the 
Board  because  of  his  family,  his  position,  the  weight  of  his 
word  when  he  chose  to  speak  it.  The  fact  that  he  usually 
refused  it  added  to  its  significance  when  it  came.  An  un- 
mistakable whimper  followed  him  as  he  came  in  and  seated 
himself  in  the  twenty-fourth  chair,  the  only  vacant  one. 
Ulysses  had  been  left  outside,  Ulysses,  who  had  never 
before  been  shut  out  from  anything  that  his  master 
attended. 

"  No,  sir,  I  do  not  go  to  church,"  Benedict  Warren  had 
once  announced.  "  I  don't  go  anyplace  where  I  can't  take 
my  dog.  What  isn't  fit  for  him  isn't  fit  for  me." 

Preliminary  business  relating  to  Commencement,  to  the 
application  of  funds  for  the  expenses  during  the  first  months 
of  the  coming  year,  was  quickly  despatched.  The  chair- 
man urged  the  business  on  in  order  to  reach  the  question 
of  the  day.  This  was  the  most  serious  meeting  of  the 
year.  After  a  moment  of  profound  hush,  broken  only  by 
the  scratching  of  the  secretary's  pen,  Mr.  Sanford,  at  the 
suggestion  of  the  president,  introduced  the  business  of  the 
day.  The  question  was,  the  proper  course  of  action  on 
the  part  of  the  Corporation  of  Winthrop  University,  in 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  235 

view  of  the  recent  statements  in  his  class-room  of  Associate 
Professor  Henry  Worthington,  regarding  the  policy  of 
the  university,  and  the  business-methods  of  an  honoured 
member  of  the  Board. 

Free  discussion  followed.  It  was  a  terrible  scene  for 
Benedict  Warren.  All  round  the  table  he  saw  only  face 
after  face  full  of  frozen  respectability.  The  solemnity 
with  which  his  friend's  son  was  arraigned,  the  awe-stricken 
horror  of  tone  paralyzed  him.  In  the  lift  of  an  eyebrow, 
in  the  expression  of  a  pair  of  folded  hands,  the  suggestion 
was  :  "  He  is  not  of  us.  He  is  an  outcast  and  apart."  It 
was  a  scene  like  that  in  which  men  in  days  before  had  judged 
one  another  to  death.  If  somebody  would  only  smile  ! 
Benedict  Warren  wanted  Ulysses  !  Dogs  were  so  human, 
and  that  whimper  coming  through  the  closed  door,  reassuring 
as  it  was,  was  maddening.  The  summer  air  brought  with  it 
tempting  suggestions  of  fishing  by  quiet  streams,  and  War- 
ren's old  grudge  against  Henry  revived  under  the  manifold 
discomforts  of  this  hour.  That  grudge  was  a  quarter  of  a 
century  old.  It  was  he  who,  having  heard  from  his  father, 
the  trustee,  of  Alfred  Worthington's  promotion  from  an 
assistant-professorship  to  the  chair  of  full  professor,  had 
hurried  with  speed  to  Lancaster  Place  to  tell  him.  He  had 
found  his  friend  reading  by  a  table,  his  left  foot  on  a  cradle, 
which  he  was  slowly  rocking. 

"  Hush,"  Alfred  had  said,  with  uplifted  hand,  "  the  boy's 
asleep." 

From  that  day  to  this,  the  boy  had  always  come  first. 

Benedict  Warren  had  taken  no  part  in  this  discussion, 
beyond  making  the  statement  that  Henry  Worthington  had 
made  no  reference  whatever  to  Mr.  Gordon  in  the  lecture 
under  consideration.  He  had  been  met  by  the  reply  that 
this  did  not  alter  the  case,  as  the  question  was  broader  than 
that  of  mere  personal  attack.  Of  teaching  subversive  to 
the  established  order,  social  and  economic,  he  had  certainly 
been  guilty,  teaching  most  certainly  pernicious,  all  the  more 
so  because  of  the  strong  hold  he  had  obtained  over  the 


236  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

young  men  under  his  charge.  Of  a  great  battle  where  the 
combatants  are  all  upon  one  side,  there  is  little  story  to  tell. 
The  Trojans  had  it  all  their  own  way  in  this  skirmish,  for 
there  were  no  Greeks,  and  even  the  gods  were  on  that  day 
all  of  one  mind.  The  opinion  that  vibrated  in  the  out- 
wardly impersonal  suggestion  of  the  chairman  was  echoed 
by  Mr.  Sanford,  and  it  resounded  in  the  legal  tones  of  Mr. 
Denison.  It  spread  itself  in  the  look  of  happy  innocence 
on  Mr.  Gordon's  face.  The  trustees  of  Winthrop  seemed 
solid  in  their  condemnation  of  the  young  offender  against 
established  laws. 

"  We  must  act,"  said  Mr.  Sanford,  starting  to  tip  back 
his  chair,  then  remembering  with  a  start  where  he  was, 
"at  once,  and  decisively.  We  must  make  an  example  of 
this.  The  faculty  shall  not  coerce  the  trustees." 

Here  the  chairman  asked  if  any  one  wished  to  make  a 
motion  to  express  the  feeling  of  the  Corporation  in  this 
matter,  and  then  he  settled  back  into  his  chair  with  a  sense 
of  duty  done. 

Then  Benedict  Warren  rose.  He  had  arrayed  himself 
in  a  suit  of  black,  of  a  fashion  thirteen  years  old,  and  he 
had  shaved  the  stubble  of  beard  from  his  face.  The  thin 
figure  with  its  distinguished  profile  and  historic  jaw  drew 
the  attention  instantly  of  three  and  twenty  pairs  of  eyes. 
He  stood  apart  from  the  group  at  the  table,  waited  for  a 
minute,  then  began.  He  was  not  an  orator,  he  said,  with 
his  long,  slow  drawl.  It  was  a  matter  of  thirty  years 
since  he  had  made  a  speech.  Generally  he  preferred  his 
own  opinions,  silence,  and  a  pipe.  But  now  he  was 
tempted  to  utter  a  word  of  protest,  inasmuch  as  the  honour- 
able body  to  which  he  belonged  seemed  about  to  make  a 
mistake. 

In  his  opinion  the  question  at  issue  was  broader  in  its 
nature  than  any  one  had  suggested.  It  was  not  simply  the 
punishment  of  a  single  instructor  for  a  rashly  uttered 
opinion ;  it  was  not  the  right  or  the  wrong  of  industrial 
conditions  existing  to-day  at  Winthrop  and  elsewhere ;  it 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  237 

was  not  the  cleanliness  or  the  uncleanliness  of  money,  but 
something  of  graver  moment  than  all  these.  It  was  the 
question  of  a  man's  liberty  to  hold  an  opinion  of  his  own 
and  to  state  it. 

"  The  right  of  an  American  citizen  to  think,  if  he  can, 
even  in  a  university,  has  been  conceded  for  many  years," 
said  Benedict  Warren,  with  that  composed  smile  rippling 
over  his  lean  face.  "That  a  man  has  been  able,  under 
conditions  so  unfavourable  as  those  of  an  ordinary  academic 
life,  to  use  his  brain  independently  should  be  cause  for  con- 
gratulation, not  for  condemnation  on  the  part  of  the  uni- 
versity Corporation.  The  example  will  not  prove  dangerous. 
I  doubt  if  it  will  rouse  the  rest  of  the  faculty  to  think 
things  out  for  themselves." 

Suddenly  his  tone  changed  from  irony  to  earnest.  Fire 
was  kindled  in  his  deep-set  eyes.  The  action  and  the 
belief  of  all  Benedict  Warren's  life  issued  in  words  stern, 
incisive,  impassioned.  One  conviction,  at  least,  this  free- 
lance in  life  had  held  with  unswerving  devotion,  a  belief  in 
the  sacredness  of  liberty.  Was  it  well,  he  asked,  for  a 
man,  in  economic  or  in  religious  matters,  to  accept  his  creed 
ready-made  ?  Must  not  its  links  be  beaten  out  in  the  pas- 
sionate smiting  of  life  ?  There  was  no  worth  to  a  man  in 
another  man's  conviction.  Was  not  the  willingness  of 
this  young  instructor  to  strike  out  for  himself  a  proof  of 
vitality  and  genuineness  that  the  university  could  ill  afford 
to  throw  away  ?  In  life  like  that,  not  in  the  handing  down 
of  traditional  formulae,  lay  the  real  strength  of  an  institu- 
tion like  this.  Organic  growth,  not  mechanical  operation, 
should  be  the  law  of  its  existence.  Mistakes  this  young 
thinker,  and  others  like  him,  would  make,  undoubtedly, 
but  mistakes  retrieved  were  power,  and  the  end  was  not 
yet. 

u  I  am  not  trying  to  uphold  the  boy's  views,"  said  War- 
ren, changing  his  tone.  "They  may  be  nonsense.  I  was 
convinced  of  that  at  first,  but  I  am  not  so  sure  now. 
However,  such  as  they  are,  he  has  a  right  to  them.  The 


238  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

principle  involved  in  this  issue  has  been  at  stake  in  all  the 
great  crises  of  history,  repression  versus  freedom.  Where 
the  former  has  conquered,  disaster  has  inevitably  followed. 
It  is  too  late  to  learn  over  again  the  lesson  of  the  Star 
Chamber,  of  Plymouth  Rock,  of  1776." 

41  For  what,"  he  added,  "  does  an  institution  like  Winthrop 
exist  ?  Enemies  will  say  that  it  is  made  up  of  idlers 
who  shirk  the  world's  hard  work.  Friends  will  say  that 
it  stands  for  the  pursuit  of  pure  truth.  If  then,  it  hinders, 
instead  of  helping,  the  march  of  thought ;  if  it  places  a 
restraining  hand  over  the  mouth  of  the  man  who  would 
speak  what  seems  to  him  truth ;  if  it  blinds  the  eyes 
that  try  to  see,  has  it  any  reason  for  existing  ?  Acting 
thus,  it  ranges  itself  with  the  walled  mediaeval  convent  and 
should  have  been  left  behind  with  the  Dark  Ages.  If  it  does 
not  mean  unflinching  search  for  truth,  in  perfect  freedom, 
it  would  be  better,"  he  paused,  "better  to  tear  down  its 
walls  and  dig  a  fish-pond.  And  I'm  not  sure,"  he  added 
meditatively,  "  that  that  wouldn't  be  a  good  idea  anyway. 
It  would  make  a  fine  pond." 

"  What  are  we  afraid  of  ?  "  he  demanded,  turning  sud- 
denly to  the  president.  "  If  we  adopt  this  policy  of  re- 
pression, we  prove  either  that  we  are  afraid  to  have  the 
truth  known,  and  so  try  to  smother  it,  like  dishonest  men  ; 
or  that,  with  fine  conceit,  we  consider  that  we  have  found 
the  truth  once  for  all  and  try  to  take  her  under  our  protec- 
tion. The  first  part  of  that  action  is  fallacy.  We  cannot 
grasp  the  truth  entire.  We  shall  be  happy  if,  by  following 
after  in  swift  pursuit,  we  can  touch  the  hem  of  her  gar- 
ment. The  second  part  is  worse  fallacy.  She  does  not 
need  our  protection.  It  is  she  who  is  the  protector,  and 
we  cannot  afford  to  patronize  the  truth.  A  few  mistakes 
cannot  kill  her.  She  is  alive  and  immortal.  Long  ago  a 
wiser  than  we  said  :  l  And  though  all  the  winds  of  doctrine 
were  let  loose  to  play  upon  the  earth,  so  Truth  be  in  the 
field,  we  do  injuriously  by  licensing  and  prohibiting  to  mis- 
doubt her  strength.  Let  her  and  falsehood  grapple  ;  who 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  239 

ever  knew  Truth  put  to  the  worse  on  a  free  and  open 
encounter  ? ' ' 

It  was  a  far  less  important  consideration,  he  added,  but 
let  the  students  once  suspect  that  the  doctrines  taught  in 
their  class-rooms  were  dictated  by  an  interested  authority, 
and  so  base  an  authority  as  money,  and  the  class-rooms 
would  be  empty,  deservedly  empty,  in  a  few  months. 
Repression,  bondage,  political  interference,  would  be  the 
end  of  Winthrop's  power. 

"  Therefore,  gentlemen,"  said  Benedict  Warren,  looking 
slowly  round  the  circle  of  astonished  faces,  "  think  twice 
before  you  take  away  from  Winthrop  University  her  price- 
less tradition  of  academic  liberty." 

There  was  a  long  pause  of  utter  silence.  Dr.  Alison 
thanked  the  gods  that  his  position  as  chairman  permitted, 
even  demanded,  silence.  The  minds  of  the  Corporation 
were  staggering  under  the  rush  of  foreign  ideas  following 
this  address.  Mr.  Sanford  sat  with  his  mouth  slightly  open. 
He  had  meant  to  make  the  motion,  but  perhaps  he  had 
better  not,  if  Warren  felt  that  way  about  it.  At  last  the 
thin,  clear  voice  of  Lawyer  Denison  broke  the  silence. 

"  Mr.  President,"  he  observed,  standing  and  twirling  his 
eye-glasses  in  long,  thin  fingers,  "  much  as  I  respect  the 
mind  and  the  opinions  of  my  honoured  colleague  who  has 
just  spoken,  I  venture  to  differ  with  him  on  every  point 
which  he  has  brought  up.  I  move  that  the  secretary  of 
the  Board  of  Trustees  communicate  to  Associate  Professor 
Henry  Worthington  the  recommendation  of  the  Board  that 
he  resign  his  position  in  Winthrop  University." 


CHAPTER   XX 

F  Mrs.  Appleton  had  not  been  slightly 
irritated  that  Sunday  morning  when  she 
came  to  breakfast,  the  course  of  destiny 
would  have  been  different.  Even  our 
bad  tempers  may  help  turn  the  mill- 
wheels  of  the  gods.  She  was  sorry  that 
Annice  was  going  away  so  soon.  She 
was  irritated  because  Professor  Worthington's  sister  had 
come  back  unexpectedly  from  the  West,  and  she  had  to 
lunch  with  her  on  Tuesday,  instead  of  going  boating  on 
the  river  as  she  had  wished.  Above  all,  she  was  chagrined 
because  her  paper  at  the  club  last  night  had  not  been  good. 
No  one  had  told  her  so ;  no  one  would  have  dared ;  but 
Mrs.  Appleton  knew.  As  usual,  Virgil  suffered  the  conse- 
quences. 

"  By  the  way,  Virgil,"  she  said,  putting  down  his  coffee- 
cup  before  she  had  begun  to  fill  it,  "  did  you  ever  look  up 
that  protege  of  yours  whom  you  told  me  about  before  I 
went  to  Florida  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Mr.  Penrose,  blankly,  looking  down  at  his 
roll.  "  The  fact  is,  Juliette,  it  slipped  my  mind." 

Mrs.  Appleton's  smile  would  have  unsainted  many  of 
those  whose  names  are  in  the  calendar. 

"  I  made  an  effort,"  he  continued,  clearing  his  throat,  his 
voice  rising  in  that  almost  imperceptible  cadence  that  for 

240 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  241 

him  marked  indignation.  "  I  visited  her  place  of  employ- 
ment one  day,  Smith's,  in  North  Winthrop  —  " 

He  stopped,  conscious  of  the  greatest  blunder  he  had 
ever  made.  Annice  was  gazing  at  him  with  wide-open, 
terrified  eyes,  as  she  had  done  that  day  from  behind  the 
counter.  He  had  never  forgotten  that  look.  It  burned 
still  in  his  inner  consciousness.  His  hands  dropped  into 
his  lap,  and  he  sat,  paralyzed  with  anxiety  lest  her  malady 
should  break  out  in  consequence  of  his  thoughtless  speech. 

"  Something  diverted  my  attention,"  he  said  hurriedly. 
"  Really,  I've  forgotten  what  it  was." 

The  spirit  of  iniquity  was  strong  at  that  moment  in 
Mrs.  Appleton. 

"  How  did  you  enjoy  Smith's  ?  "  she  asked. 

Her  brother  turned  his  dazed  brown  eyes  full  upon  her. 

"  How  did  I  enjoy  Smith's ? "  he  asked.     "I  —  " 

Then  he  saw  Annice  again  and  stopped,  remembering 
her  twofold  connection  with  the  place.  What  kind  of 
remark  would  be  most  soothing  ?  A  conciliatory  one. 

"  I  liked  it  very  much,"  he  said  gently,  giving  his  sister 
a  warning  glance,  Annice  a  pitying  one. 

Mrs.  Appleton  was  deeply  puzzled.  To  tease  two  people 
at  the  same  time  was  rare  pleasure  to  her.  But  why,  since 
the  secret  of  the  teasing  rested  with  her  and  with  Annice, 
did  Virgil  look  so  knowing  ? 

"  I  think  you  never  told  me  that  girl's  name." 

"  Her  name,"  said  Penrose,  reluctantly,  crushing  his 
napkin  and  laying  it  beside  his  plate,  "  her  name  is  Mary 
Burns." 

Annice  gave  a  great  start.  Was  Mary  Burns  the  heroine 
of  the  story  Mr.  Penrose  had  told  that  day  in  the  shop,  and 
the  victim  of  her  father's  fraud  ?  The  minute  that  she  had 
dreaded  during  all  the  weeks  of  her  stay  with  Mrs.  Apple- 
ton  had  come.  Annice  was  equal  to  it. 

u  I  know  that  girl,"  she  said  quietly.  "  I  met  her  when 
I  was  working  in  my  father's  shop.  She  has  a  sick  sister, 
and  if  anybody  ever  deserved  help,  she  does." 


242  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

Mr.  Penrose  gazed  at  his  lost  love  in  utter  astonishment. 
u  *•  My  father's  shop,  working  in  my  father's  shop,'  "  he  re- 
peated to  himself.  Had  he  been  about  to  lay  his  life  down 
at  the  feet  of  a  young  woman  who  could  say  that  so 
calmly  ?  Mrs.  Appleton's  conscience  smote  her  as  she 
saw  in  the  girl's  face  and  in  her  brother's  the  nervous 
excitement  that  had  followed  her  bantering  remark.  She 
rose  from  the  table,  and  laid  her  hand  soothingly  on  the 
girl's  shoulder. 

u  There,  there,  there,"  she  said.  "  Don't  explain.  It's 
all  over  and  forgotten.  And  Virgil  would  hardly  be 
interested,  anyway." 

It  remained  for  Mr.  Penrose  to  save  the  day,  and  he  did 
it  gallantly,  unheeding,  so  to  speak,  his  sister  in  the  process. 
He  rose  to  all  his  elegant  height,  and  his  lost  accent  came 
back  to  him. 

"  It  would,  perhaps,  be  more  fitting,  Juliette,  for  a  lady 
to  act  in  this  matter.  If  you  will  discover  the  whereabouts 
of  Mary  Burns  —  Miss  Gordon  can  probably  help  you  — 
and  will  investigate  her  circumstances,  you  may  draw  upon 
me  to  any  extent  for  pecuniary  aid,  if  that  is  necessary.  I 
have  always  felt  that  I  owe  a  debt  to  her  mother." 

He  beat  a  magnificent  retreat.  Mrs.  Appleton  looked 
after  him  admiringly. 

"  Virgil  is  fine  when  he  is  roused,"  she  remarked.  "  He 
simply  needs  stimulus." 

She  thought  no  more  of  the  matter  as  they  went  to 
church  at  St.  Michael's.  The  quiet,  the  rich  lights  and 
shadows  of  the  stained  windows,  the  clear  voices  of  the 
surpliced  choir  boys,  always  brought  their  own  suggestions 
with  them.  She  sat  now  in  her  severely  beautiful  black 
gown  and  bonnet  in  the  ancestral  pew,  and  thought  that 
she  would  be  better  and  sweeter-tempered  next  week,  and 
she  would  have  a  summer  wrap  like  the  one  three  seats 
ahead,  but  more  elegant.  The  world  only  gave  hints  to 
Mrs.  Appleton  of  what  was  to  issue  from  her  creative 
mind  enlarged  and  beautiful.  She  half-dreamed,  for  the 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  243 

day  was  warm,  and  a  bee  was  humming  an  accompaniment 
to  the  service,  of  a  time,  somewhere,  when  she  could 
have  her  daughter  back,  Frances,  with  her  curving  neck 
and  girlish  shoulders,  and  the  old  maternal  passion  came 
back  in  sleep.  She  saw  and  felt  the  touch  of  the  girl's 
hair  against  her  cheek.  Here  her  mind  wandered  off  to 
the  luncheon  she  was  to  give  on  Friday,  and  she  hoped 
that  Morton  would  not  send  such  miserable  ices  again. 
Then  she  realized  that  everybody  was  singing,  "  For  thee, 
O  dear,  dear  country,"  and  that  she  was  sitting  still  in  the 
pew.  She  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  start. 

Annice  remembered,  at  first.'  The  mention  of  Mary's 
name  brought  back  all  the  old  pity.  She  saw  again  the 
poor  little  room,  and  the  tired  eyes  of  the  two  sisters. 
They  were  cousins,  then,  she  and  these  girls  whose  kind- 
ness to  her  had  been  a  revelation  of  the  beautiful  heart  of 
common  things.  She  would  find  some  way  to  undo  that 
old  wrong.  Here  she  looked  at  one  of  the  stained  glass 
windows,  where  St.  Michael  was  standing,  with  his  sword 
drawn,  and  one  triumphant  foot  upon  the  dragon's  neck. 
She  had  never  thought  of  it  before,  but  the  young  saint 
looked  like  Henry  Worthington.  That  outline  of  the 
nose,  the  determined  mouth,  the  hair  waving  back  from 
the  forehead,  were  his.  His,  too,  or  so  it  should  be,  the 
aureole.  But  the  eyes  were  not  natural.  They  were 
fixed  upon  the  dragon.  They  ought  to  turn  and  gaze 
upon  her,  with  that  look  —  Annice  shut  her  eyes  to  realize 
the  look  more  keenly,  and  then,  in  an  agony,  the  conscious- 
ness of  what  she  had  done  overcame  her.  She  had  silenced 
that  voice  to  which  her  whole  being  vibrated.  That  ex- 
pression of  bitter  hurt  and  longing  in  Henry's  eyes  as  she 
had  sent  him  away  had  strengthened  her  for  her  refusal. 
She  had  not  realized  that  she  would  need  those  eyes  always 
to  sustain  her  heroism  in  letting  him  go !  She  forgot  her 
own  resolution.  She  forgot  Mary  Burns.  Wonder  and 
delight  and  pain  chased  through  her  heart,  all  melting  into 
sorrow  at  the  thought  that  Henry  had  gone,  for  she  loved 


244  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

him  as  only  a  Puritan  girl  can  love,  with  the  suppressed 
passion  of  generations  kept  warm  under  the  snow. 

But  Professor  Penrose  remembered.  He  was  drinking 
in  the  full  aesthetic  and  spiritual  beauty  of  the  ritual  that 
he  loved.  He  was  enjoying,  with  an  artist's  appreciation, 
the  relief  of  the  rector's  snow-white  hair  and  solemn  gown 
against  the  carven  oak  of  chair  and  pulpit.  His  ears  were 
attuned  to  the  swelling  organ  music,  but  Professor  Penrose 
remembered  Mary  Burns.  His  was  a  sensitive  nature, 
alive  to  indefinable  influences  of  spiritual  force,  and  he 
had  a  growing  feeling  that  something  was  wrong.  The 
little  gambrel-roofed  house'  where  he  had  first  seen  the 
child  became  real  to  him.  He  could  see  the  poplar  tree 
by  the  door,  and  the  winding  path  across  the  bridge  by 
the  brook,  to  the  barn.  The  yellow  head  of  the  little  girl, 
the  plump,  troubled  face  of  her  mother,  with  fine  wrinkles 
all  over  it  like  that  of  a  Gerard  Dou  portrait,  and  the 
brown  skin  of  the  father,  with  his  gray-fringed  chin,  stood 
out  almost  as  distinctly  for  his  memory  as  they  had  done 
for  his  eyes  ten  years  ago.  Those  people  had  been  good 
to  him  in  an  hour  of  need,  and  he  had  forgotten.  Truly, 
he  had  left  undone  those  things  that  he  ought  to  have  done, 
and  he  bowed  his  head  in  unwonted  penitence. 

It  was  Professor  Penrose  who  led  the  charge  that  day 
at  luncheon.  Unlike  other  people,  Mrs.  Appleton  refused 
to  dine  at  noon  on  Sunday.  Why  one  should  infringe 
upon  the  laws  of  nature  by  changing  the  dinner  hour  on 
the  day  that  was  to  be  kept  holy,  she  did  not  see,  and 
change  was  bad  for  Virgil's  nerves.  So  they  lunched  as 
usual  at  two. 

"  By  the  way,  Juliette,"  asked  her  brother,  as  he  served 
the  salad,  "  have  you  taken  any  steps  in  that  matter  we  spoke 
of  this  morning  ?  " 

"  What  matter  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Appleton. 

He  made  no  taunts. 

"  The  relief  of  the  young  girl  we  were  speaking  about 
this  morning.  I  have  been  thinking  about  her.  I  find 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  245 

from  Miss  Gordon  that  she  is  trying  to  live  on  a  salary 
ludicrously  inadequate  to  the  barest  needs  of  life,  and  I 
have  an  impression — it  is  strange,  but  these  subtle  psychic 
influences  we  really  cannot  escape  —  I  have  an  impression 
that  she  is  in  need  of  help.  Should  you  mind  going  this 
afternoon  ? " 

"Why,  Virgil,"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Appleton,  with  her 
mind  full  of  her  afternoon  nap,  "  isn't  this  a  little  sudden, 
after  ten  years  ?  and  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea  where  to 
find  her.  Smith's,  of  course,  is  closed." 

"  I  know  where  she  lives,"  said  Annice.  "  May  I  go 
with  you  ?  " 

"  But,"  said  Mrs.  Appleton,  hesitating. 

"  Do  not  go  if  you  do  not  feel  like  it,  Juliette,"  said 
Mr.  Penrose,  gently.  "  If  you  do  not,  I  shall,  however." 

Mrs.  Appleton  went.  In  a  matter  demanding  practical 
energy,  she  had  never  yet  been  outdone  by  Virgil. 

"  It  is  strange,"  she  said,  as  they  threaded  their  way 
through  the  crowded  streets,  full  of  people  enjoying  to  the  full 
the  Sunday  idleness  and  the  sunshine,  "  it  is  strange  about 
Virgil.  If  the  world  were  rushing  to  destruction  before 
his  eyes,  he  would  watch  it  calmly  with  folded  hands. 
His  critical  opinion  as  to  what  was  the  matter  would  be 
absolutely  correct,  but  he  wouldn't  unfold  his  hands." 

She  forgot  her  brother's  limitations  in  her  enjoyment  of 
the  change  from  the  sanctified  calm  of  South  Winthrop  for 
the  noise  and  colour  of  the  North.  Her  usual  self  had 
been  laid  aside  like  a  mask,  and  she  watched  with  un- 
feigned delight  the  little  groups  of  workmen  out  walking 
with  their  families.  She  studied,  with  an  interest  that  was 
frankly  returned,  the  faces  of  the  dealers  in  old  clothes, 
who  stood  shrouded  in  their  long  beards,  at  their  shop 
doors.  It  was  her  first  visit  to  this  part  of  the  city. 
Annice  tried  to  usher  her  quickly  past  an  overflowing 
baker  shop  in  the  Italian  quarter,  where  loaves  lay  com- 
fortably on  the  floor,  and  flies  sat  comfortably  on  the  loaves. 

"  I  haven't  enjoyed  anything  so  much  in  years,"  said  Mrs. 


246  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

Appleton.  "Do  you  suppose  if  I  came  to  live  in  the  slums 
I  should  be  as  happy  as  these  people  are  ?  " 

The  look  in  her  eyes  belied  her  smile.  She  was  gazing 
at  the  people  about  her,  and  down  the  long  lines  on  both 
sides  of  the  streets.  The  little  daughters  of  these  families 
seemed  all  to  be  alive  !  Women  filed  past,  their  dresses 
open  at  the  throat,  their  babies  on  their  arms,  and  they  made 
unintelligible  remarks  as  they  scrutinized  Mrs.  Appleton's 
attire.  One  little  boy  ran  ahead  of  her,  shouting,  "  See  the 
bloomin'  swell !  "  The  lady  patted  him  on  the  head,  and 
gave  him  ten  cents  to  be  quiet.  A  dirty  little  Jewish  girl 
ran  out  and  clasped  her  hand.  Mrs.  Appleton  put  her 
fingers  under  the  child's  chin,  and  raised  the  little  face 
toward  her,  then  stooped,  and  almost  kissed  it.  Those 
were  Frances's  eyebrows.  Her  courage  did  not  falter  until 
she  faced  the  dark  stairway  of  the  tenement-house  where 
Mary  Burns  lived. 

There  was  trouble  enough  in  the  little  family  in  Saluta- 
tion Street,  but  no  more  trouble  than  there  had  been  for 
the  last  five  weeks.  Jennie  had  dragged  herself  out  to 
church.  It  was  the  first  time  for  many  days  that  she 
had  been  upon  the  street,  and  her  short  walk  exhausted  her. 
When  the  four-o'clock  service  was  over,  a  sympathetic 
neighbour  came  to  take  her  home.  She  asked  if  Mary  had 
found  a  new  place  yet,  and  Jennie  learned  through  her  the 
news  that  her  sister  had  left  Smith's  more  than  a  month 
ago.  The  news  came  like  a  stinging  blow  upon  the  head, 
and  Jennie  went  helplessly  home  with  her  friend,  too  weak 
at  that  moment  to  climb  the  long  flights  of  stairs,  too  dazed 
to  dare  think  what  this  calamity  meant.  Mary,  at  home, 
leaned  out  of  the  window,  piteously  glad  for  this  minute 
of  solitude  in  which  to  face  her  own  despair  alone.  Her 
face  was  gray  like  Jennie's  now,  and  in  it  was  visible  the 
long,  slow  crushing  out  of  life  and  hope.  She  was  idly 
turning  over  in  her  fingers,  as  she  had  done  so  often  in  the 
last  two  weeks,  that  note  of  Mr.  Smith's.  She  read  it 
again,  admiring  the  beautiful  rounded  letters  with  their  care- 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  247 

ful  shading  and  their  flourishes.  Could  a  bad  man  write 
like  that,  she  wondered  ?  Maybe,  all  along,  she  had  been 
flying  in  the  face  of  their  one  chance  of  salvation.  Maybe, 
all  along,  he  had  been  like  this,  merely  kind. 

The  nuns  were  walking  in  their  garden,  two  by  two, 
counting  the  beads  upon  their  rosaries.  They  were  pray- 
ing, Mary  knew,  and  she  was  glad  that  there  were  people 
who  still  could  do  that.  The  little  new  leaves  were 
waving  on  the  ivy  that  covered  the  wall,  around  the  white 
Christ  in  the  niche,  and  a  fragrance  of  summer  floated  up 
from  the  apple-trees  of  the  garden,  and  from  the  rose- 
bushes along  the  wall.  A  bell  rang,  and  the  nuns  went 
slowly  in  to  service.  She  could  hear  the  voices  of  their 
singing  :  "  Jesu,  misericordia"  prayed  the  music.  Mary 
flung  herself  upon  her  knees  by  the  window.  The  old 
heroic,  overstrained  temperament,  capable  of  doing  in  a 
moment  a  deed  of  martyrdom  to  be  repented  for  a  life- 
time, triumphed,  for  the  moment. 

"  I'll  do  it !  "  she  said  to  herself.  She  had  made  the 
resolve  a  dozen  times,  and  had  retracted  it.  "  What  does 
it  matter  ?  What  does  anything  matter,  compared  with 
Jennie  ?  I'll  ask  that  man  for  money.  I  don't  care  what 
it  means." 

It  was  quite  a  long  time  after  this  that  she  heard  a 
knock  at  the  door,  and  rose  from  her  knees  as  she  said, 
"  Come."  The  interval  had  been  full  of  the  old  fluctua- 
tions of  feeling ;  on  one  side  was  intense  repugnance ; 
on  the  other,  despair.  When  her  visitors  entered  she 
stared  at  them  with  amazement.  Why  was  Annie  Whit- 
ney here  with  this  fine  lady  ?  But  she  held  out  her  hand 
and  greeted  her  cordially. 

"  Where  did  you  go  to  ? "  she  asked.  "  I've  been 
wondering  about  you  this  long  time." 

Annice,  to  Mrs.  Appleton's  surprise,  bent  forward  and 
kissed  her.  It  was  a  kind  of  apology  for  her  father's  sin. 
Then  a  time  of  great  embarrassment  followed,  when  no  one 
knew  where  to  look  or  what  to  say.  Annice  was  wonder- 


248  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

ing  why  Mary  Burns's  hands  were  so  hot,  and  why  the 
colour  had  faded  so  from  her  hair.  Mrs.  Appleton  was 
studying  the  room,  and  nothing  escaped  her.  She  noted 
the  clean  dish-towel,  the  patched  bedspread,  the  brown 
paper  pasted  over  the  places  in  the  walls  where  the  plaster 
had  been  broken,  the  tiny  wooden  tub  that  served  for  the 
sisters'  bath.  The  cleanliness  fascinated  her,  as  did  the 
cracked  blue  china  on  the  what-not  in  the  corner.  The 
errand  of  mercy  was  taking  the  form  of  farce.  Annice 
felt  her  tongue  slowly  stiffening  as  if  paralyzed.  She  could 
not  treat  this  cousin  as  if  she  were  a  pauper.  She  could 
not  tell  why  she  had  come. 

Mary  broke  the  silence. 

"  Did  you  get  a  new  place  ?  "  she  asked. 

Annice  blushed  painfully,  and  Mrs.  Appleton  laughed. 

"  No,"  said  Annice.     "  Are  you  still  at  Smith's  ?  " 

"  I  lost  my  place,"  said  Mary  Burns,  simply. 

They  talked  at  random  for  a  few  minutes,  then  the  visi- 
tors took  their  leave.  Mrs.  Appleton  thanked  heaven  when 
she  reached  the  courtyard  below. 

"  I  don't  think  those  girls  need  advice  from  us,"  she  re- 
marked, as  she  stepped  into  the  light.  "  We  might  come 
down  to  learn  some  of  their  virtues.  Did  you  see  —  " 

"  I  didn't  see  anything,"  said  Annice,  excitedly,  "  except 
that  girl's  face.  She  has  changed  so  !  I  am  going  back  to 
find  out  what  the  trouble  is.  Will  you  wait  ?  It  will  take 
only  a  minute." 

It  took  half  an  hour.  Mrs.  Appleton  was  at  a  loss  to 
know  what  to  do.  Through  windows  all  about  the  court 
curious  eyes  stared  at  her,  and  the  eager  chattering  of  the 
Italian  tongue  greeted  her  ears.  At  last  she  deliberately 
seated  herself  on  an  upturned  banana  cart,  and  studied  her 
surroundings  with  eyes  that  let  nothing  escape.  Children 
crowded  around  her.  One  tiny  boy  in  a  gingham  dress  came 
up  to  her,  smoking  a  cigarette.  She  tried  to  take  it  from 
him,  smiling  as  she  did  so,  but  he  clasped  it  more  closely  in 
his  little  hand  so  that  it  burnt  a  hole  in  his  apron.  She 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  249 

noticed  that  a  black-eyed  boy  snatched  from  a  smaller  one  a 
banana  that  he  was  eating. 

"  Don't  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Appleton. 

"  He  mustn't  have  it,"  said  the  older  boy,  politely. 
"  Don't  you  know  you  mustn't  eat  anything  to-day  ?  " 

«  Why  ?  "  asked  the  lady. 

"  'Cause  if  you  do,  the  thing  that  comes  down  out  of  the 
sky  in  summer  will  come  down  and  hit  you." 

The  children  had  come  close  to  Mrs.  Appleton.  Curi- 
ous little  fingers  shyly  touched  her  gown,  and  very  dirty, 
small  bare  feet  trod  on  hers. 

"  You  mean  that  you  will  be  struck  by  lightning  if  you 
eat  anything  on  fast  day  ?  "  she  asked  her  young  instructor. 

He  nodded. 

«  Why  ?  " 

"  'Cause,"  he  answered. 

«  'Cause  why  ?  " 

"  'Cause  it  belongs  to  somebody  up  there,  not  God,  no, 
I  know  all  about  God,  but  I  mean  the  ladies,  yes,  that's 
it,  the  Virgin.  She'll  send  it  after  you  if  you  eat  to-day. 
Anyway,  that  was  a  bad  boy  I  took  it  away  from.  He 
hits  his  father  and  mother,  'stead  of  their  hittin'  him." 

Mrs.  Appleton's  liberal  education  was  interrupted  by  the 
arrival  of  Annice.  The  girl  tried  to  speak,  as  they  left  the 
court  together,  but  her  lips  refused  to  move.  Her  face  was 
full  of  tragic  consciousness  that,  in  her  mission  to  the  many 
who  suffer,  she  had  overlooked  the  bitter  need  near  at 
hand. 

"  What  is  it,  child  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Appleton. 

41  It's  nothing,  only  —  "  and  the  girl's  voice  broke  into 
a  little  gasp.  They  forced  their  way  out  of  the  crowd  and 
found  a  quiet  square  where  a  few  trees  stood  over  a  little 
green  plot  that  broke  the  dreariness  of  the  endless  line  of 
uniform  brick  houses.  A  Salvation-Army  orator  was  ha- 
ranguing a  little  group  of  people  at  one  corner.  Annice 
found  her  voice  and  told  the  whole  pitiful  story  that  she 
had  heard  in  the  room  upstairs. 


250  HENRY  WORTHINGTON 

"For  five  weeks,"  she  repeated,  with  a  hard  little  sob, 
"  she  has  been  tramping  the  streets  of  this  city,  trying  to 
get  work,  starving  herself  to  keep  her  sister  from  knowing. 
I  said  that  I  would  send  her  a  check  to-morrow,  and  she 
put  down  her  head  and  cried  like  a  child.  She  was  going," 
Annice's  voice  again  stuck  in  her  throat,  "  she  was  going 
to  let  that  man  help  her." 

"  What  man  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Appleton. 

"  That  slimy  man  who  manages  my  father's  shop.  He 
has  always  persecuted  her,  and  she  hated  him.  They  were 
good  to  me  when  they  thought  I  was  suffering,  and  I  —  I 
let  them  go." 

They  had  neared  the  little  group  at  the  corner,  and  the 
voice  of  the  orator  reached  them,  as  he  stood  with  the 
vivid  colours  of  his  uniform  shining  out  against  the  dingy 
houses  of  the  square. 

" '  Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this,  that  a  man  lay 
down  his  life  for  his  friends,' "  he  quoted  solemnly. 

A  queer  look  came  into  Mrs.  Appleton's  face. 

"  That  wasn't  said  about  women,"  she  remarked  grimly. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

RS.  APPLETON  insisted  that  Annice 
should  accompany  her  to  the  luncheon 
at  the  Worthingtons'.  The  professor 
had  invited  her  specially,  with  the  old- 
time  courtesy  that  always  charmed  Mrs. 
Appleton. 

"  Is  there  any  reason  for  your  not 
wanting  to  go  ?  "  she  asked  the  girl.  "  I  should  hate  to 
have  you  hurt  the  professor's  feelings.  I  am  very  fond  of 
him.  They  don't  make  that  kind  of  gentleman  nowadays. 
Henry  will  never  be  his  father's  equal." 

Annice  decided  that  she  would  rather  go  than  explain. 
She  was  glad  to  escape  at  any  price  from  the  scrutiny  of 
Mrs.  Appleton's  eyes  as  that  lady  watched  the  effect  of 
her  remarks. 

The  sister  who  had  come  from  the  West  had  filled  with 
her  presence  the  entire  house  at  Lancaster  Place.  Her 
possessions  extended  from  the  best  bedroom  to  the  library. 
Zuni  pottery  stood  on  the  parlour  floor,  and  Indian  ham- 
mocks rested  on  the  dining-room  chairs.  She  had  pre- 
sented her  brother  with  a  cow-boy  lariat,  and  had  been  hurt 
as  he  mildly  inquired  what  he  could  use  it  for.  To  Henry 
she  had  given  a  pair  of  beaded  moccasins,  remembering 
him  as  the  little  boy  whom  she  had  offered  to  bring  up. 
All  her  old  friends  had  flocked  to  visit  her,  drawn  by  the 

*5« 


252  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

freshness  of  atmosphere  and  the  air  of  adventure  that  she 
had  brought  from  the  plains.  Unwonted  sounds  of  kissing 
haunted  the  front  door,  and  black-clad  ladies  invaded  the 
library  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

The  windows  of  the  old  dining-room,  opening  to  the 
piazza  floor,  were  open  through  the  luncheon-hour  that 
day.  June  breezes  crept  in  through  the  wistaria  vines  and 
the  clematis  that  had  made  a  screen  from  pillar  to  pillar. 
The  professor  did  the  honours  as  host  with  the  touch  of 
formality  that  had  always  clung  to  him,  and  he  watched 
his  sister  in  her  seat  opposite  him,  half  in  pride,  half  in 
terror,  wondering  what  she  would  say  next.  The  life  of 
army  officer's  wife  had  developed  for  her  both  brain  and 
muscle.  She  hatl  cast  off  the  conventions  of  her  native 
city,  and  she  laughed,  her  black  eyes  shining  like  coals  in 
her  dark  brown  skin,  at  the  effete  civilization  of  the  Eastern 
town.  No  one  else  had  to  talk  when  she  was  there.  She 
led  the  conversation  through  the  ascent  of  the  Rockies, 
encounters  with  rebellious  Indians  upon  the  plains,  and 
rattlesnake-hunts  in  the  foot-hills. 

The  professor  was  deeply  grieved.  He  had  insisted  on 
Miss  Gordon's  presence  for  the  sole  purpose  of  making 
Henry  happy,  penitent  for  those  moments  when  he  had 
resented  the  boy's  interest  in  her.  Henry  had  met  the 
suggestion  with  a  stony  glare  of  the  eyes,  then  had  insisted 
that  this  should  be  a  ladies'  luncheon,  and  that  he  and  his 
father  should  stay  down  town.  He  had  been  overruled  by 
the  professor,  who  attributed  this  perversity  to  bashfulness, 
and  here  he  was,  face  to  face  with  Annice  Gordon  and  as 
pale  as  she.  He  bent  his  eyes  upon  his  plate  as  long  as 
possible,  then  he  looked  up,  and  the  misery  in  his  eyes  met 
full  the  misery  in  hers.  Mrs.  Appleton  was  diverted.  She 
understood  the  situation,  of  course.  Why  else  had  she 
insisted  that  Annice  should  come  ?  But  the  professor  saw 
only  his  son's  stolid  countenance  and  was  ashamed  of  the 
boy. 

It   ended,   mercifully,  at   last.      Henry   almost  groaned 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  253 

with  relief  when  the  chairs  were  pushed  back  and  a  way  of 
escape  seemed  open.  As  the  guests  filed  out  into  the  hall- 
way to  look  at  the  curiously  woven  baskets  that  his  aunt 
exhibited  with  such  pride,  Henry  moved  toward  the  open 
window  and  the  piazza,  wondering  how  he  had  lived 
through  the  last  hour.  A  detaining  hand  held  him  pris- 
oner. The  professor  walked  after  his  guests  into  the  great 
hall  that  swept  through  the  house,  and  he  kept  a  firm,  but 
affectionate  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  his  son.  Mrs.  Ap- 
pleton's  eyes  gleamed.  She  had  not  been  so  well  amused 
once  throughout  the  whole  winter.  She  smiled  gratefully 
at  the  professor  when  she  heard  him  ask  Henry  to  show 
Miss  Gordon  the  garden,  and  she  resigned  herself  as 
chief  victim  to  the  conversation  of  the  lady  from  the 
West. 

The  Worthington  garden  had  been  a  wonder  in  the  days 
of  Henry's  grandfather.  Sweeping  back  behind  the  house 
to  the  other  street,  and  protected  there  by  a  tall  spruce 
hedge,  it  had  been,  in  the  family's  palmy  days,  a  miracle  of 
gardening.  It  was  neglected  now.  There  was  no  money 
with  which  to  take  care  of  it,  but  the  professor  stoutly 
refused  to  part  with  an  inch  of  the  land.  This  sacred 
ground  should  not  be  cut  up  into  building  lots  during  his 
lifetime,  he  said.  Now  there  were  great  tangles  of  old 
rose-bushes  and  of  snow-berry  shrubs.  Lilies-of-the-valley 
had  spread  into  a  thick  carpet.  In  a  shady  corner,  hardy 
rock-ferns  were  running  wild.  The  box-borders  were 
ragged,  and  the  whole  place,  with  its  bloom  of  neglected 
tulips  and  narcissus  in  the  spring,  of  hollyhocks  and  roses 
in  the  summer,  was  given  over  to  bees  and  butterflies  for 
their  own. 

Henry  ushered  Miss  Gordon,  in  perfect  silence,  down 
one  of  the  irregular  narrow  paths,  where  grass  grew  in  tufts 
among  the  gravel.  Someway,  the  heavy  perfume  of  the 
June  roses  and  the  syringas  made  it  harder  to  bear.  There 
she  was,  standing,  as  he  had  wished  to  see  her  stand,  in 
days  when  hope  was  still  alive,  close  by  the  cut-leaf  birch 


254  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

tree.  She  turned  and  spoke,  with  a  woman's  feeling  that 
somebody  ought  to  make  a  remark. 

"  Your  garden  is  very  beautiful,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  don't !  "  groaned  Henry. 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"  We  haven't  got  to  be  polite  and  converse,  have  we  ?  " 
he  asked.  "  I  can't  stand  it." 

The  girl  trembled  a  little  and  was  still.  They  walked 
on,  turning  now  to  face  the  old  house,  with  its  long  lines 
of  white  against  the  blue,  and  its  peculiar  trees,  button- 
wood,  poplar,  hemlock,  guarding  its  walls  ;  now  to  face  the 
solemn  green  hedge  of  spruce  against  the  west.  Annice 
stopped  at  a  corner,  lifted  a  great  crimson  rose,  single- 
petalled  and  golden  at  the  heart,  in  her  fingers,  then  looked 
up  at  the  face  above  her. 

"I  want  you  to  give  me  some  advice,"  she  said  wistfully. 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  be  of  service  to  you,"  he  said. 
His  tone  was  chilly. 

"  It  is  about  that  question  of  the  money."  The  girl's 
voice  begged  piteously  for  sympathy.  "We  have  never 
talked  about  it,  about  Smith's,  since  I  was  there,  but  I 
haven't  forgotten  any  of  the  things  you  said  about  it.  Of 
course  I  can't  go  on  using  money  that  I  disapprove  of." 

"Then  I  do  not  see,"  said  Henry,  eagerly,  with  a 
changed  voice,  "  how  you  are  going  to  stay  and  take  care 
of  your  father  always." 

The  feminine,  repentant,  impulsive  soul  of  the  girl  was 
reflected  in  her  changing  eyes. 

"  I  could  earn  my  living  in  some  way,"  she  said  feebly, 
"  and  take  care  of  him  too." 

Henry  had  vowed  to  be  silent,  therefore  he  spoke.  His 
eyes  had  been  following  the  line  where  the  girl's  hair  met 
her  forehead,  and  lingering  on  the  curve  of  her  cheek. 
His  lips  were  white. 

"Annice,"  he  groaned,  "  don't  keep  thrusting  things  be- 
tween us.  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you." 

She    looked    up,    frightened,   then    looked    down    again. 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  255 

The  young  man,  by  great  effort,  kept  himself  from  stoop- 
ing to  kiss  the  part  of  her  hair.  There  was  silence  for  a 
minute.  The  murmur  of  insects,  the  wind  among  the 
leaves,  made  a  sound  like  the  sound  of  running  water. 

"  Can't  you  love  me  back  ?  "  said  Henry,  desperately. 

She  swayed  toward  him  a  minute  as  the  birch  tree  was 
swaying  in  the  wind.  Then  she  drew  away  again. 

"  I  must  not,"  she  said. 

"  Do  you  want  to  drive  me  mad  ?  "  he  asked  fiercely. 
"  You  are  mine,  mine.  I  can  feel  your  heart-beats  in  my 
pulses.  You  are  more  I  than  I  am  myself.  When  I  say 
anything  you  are  speaker  and  listener  too.  And  you  are 
going  to  tear  yourself  away  from  me  just  for  —  I  don't 
know  what  for,  but  I've  been  in  hell  since  Friday." 

The  girl's  eyes  watched  him,  helplessly.  Every  struggle 
she  had  made  to  get  away  had  carried  her  nearer  and  nearer 
his  arms,  and  she  knew  it. 

u  It  is  only  because  of  my  duty,"  she  whispered. 

"  It  is  because  you  don't  care,"  he  said,  with  his  voice 
full  of  a  dull  hopelessness. 

"  It  is  because  I  care  so  much,"  said  the  girl,  with  sud- 
den passion.  "  Can't  you  see,  why  are  you  so  stupid  ? 
Every  hair  of  your  head  is  dearer  to  me  than  anything  else 
in  the  world." 

Her  eyes  were  alight  with  the  fire  hidden  so  long. 
Henry  bowed  his  head,  for  the  minute  was  sacred,  then  he 
turned  and  took  her  in  his  arms,  forgetting  time  and  place. 
He  was  faint,  and  the  world  seemed  to  fade  away  like  mist. 
The  curtain  hiding  the  invisible  had  been  pierced  at  last, 
and  he  did  not  know  whether  the  perfume  that  greeted  him 
belonged  to  the  garden  of  his  childhood,  or  to  the  land  of 
mystery  that  had  opened.  Annice,  with  his  kiss  upon  her 
lips,  knew,  in  one  prescient  moment,  all  the  future,  felt 
those  coming  days  of  vivid  service  in  love's  name.  The 
tumult  of  its  long  gladness  was  in  her  veins,  and  the  dust 
of  her  grave  seemed  near  and  sweet.  She  opened  her  eyes 
and  freed  herself,  then  stood  there  among  the  flowers  with 


256  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

tingling  cheeks,  like  a  woman  facing  life  in  the  sunrise  of 
creation. 

"It  is  of  no  use,"  she  said  solemnly.  "I  cannot  stay 
away  from  you,  and  I  have  tried  so  hard." 

From  the  library  window  the  professor  had  seen  all.  He 
withdrew  hastily  as  if  reproaching  himself  for  an  intrusion 
that  was  not  his  fault ;  then  went  over  and  bowed  his  head 
upon  his  wife's  writing-desk,  weighed  down  by  a  many- 
sided  sense  of  pain.  Henry  was  all  he  had,  all  he  had  left, 
and  now?  Mrs.  Appleton,  glancing  up  a  minute  later, 
saw  at  a  distance,  framed  in  the  square  doorway  of  the 
huge  hall,  the  two  lovers  walking  side  by  side  most  inno- 
cently down  the  garden  path,  with  a  background  of 
green. 

" 1  presume  Annice  is  calming  his  mind  by  telling  him 
that  she  cannot  see  him  again,"  thought  Mrs.  Appleton, 
"  and  he  won't  know  enough  to  capture  her  vi  et  armis" 

Then  she  went  back  to  the  baskets,  and  listened  to 
her  friend  for  an  hour  and  a  half  without  saying  a  word. 
There  are  saints  whose  names  are  not  in  the  calendar,  and 
there  are  saintly  minutes  in  the  lives  of  most  sinners.  She 
really  could  not  interrupt.  Annice  did  not  come  to  her 
rescue.  Professor  Worthington,  who  had  gone  to  the 
library  for  a  book,  had  not  come  back,  and  Mrs.  Appleton 
wondered  why.  She  had  never  before  known  him  guilty 
of  a  subterfuge.  With  patience  she  had  never  yet  shown 
she  waited  through  that  whole  afternoon.  She,  too,  had 
once  been  a  lover,  and  those  June  days  had  been  like  this. 

They  discussed  all  the  past  and  all  the  future  in  the  old 
garden  that  afternoon.  Henry  restrained  himself  from 
putting  a  wreath  of  flowers  in  the  girl's  hair,  remembering 
that  they  were  not  savages  in  the  forest,  and  wishing  that 
they  were. 

"  When  did  you  find  it  out  ? "  asked  Annice,  loath  to 
let  go  the  sweet  old  theme. 

"The  first  time  I  set  my  eyes  on  you,"  answered 
Henry. 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  257 

"  You  didn't  care  about  me  then,"  exclaimed  Annice, 
with  wide-opened  eyes.  "  It  wouldn't  have  been  proper." 

"  I  didn't  care  what  was  proper,"  he  remarked,  vehe- 
mently. "  I  don't  now.  I  wanted  to  take  care  of  you 
from  the  very  first.  I  was  desperately  afraid  something 
would  happen  to  you,  and  I  thought  — " 

"  What  did  you  think  ?  "  she  begged. 

"I  thought  that  you  were  very  pretty,  and  extremely 
polite  for  a  shop-girl." 

"  You  looked  scared,"  she  said,  with  a  little  laugh. 
"  You  were  so  relieved  when  I  answered  your  questions, 
and  you  sat  down  as  if  you  had  come  to  stay." 

"  Did  you  expect  me  to  come  again  ?  " 

"  I  thought  nothing  about  it,"  said  Annice,  severely. 
"  You  were  a  stranger,  and  I  did  not  know  anything  about 
you,  except  that  you  were  a  gentleman.  Would  you  have 
liked  me  to  want  you  to  come  again  ? " 

"  If  I  had  been  a  stranger,  no.  As  I  was  I,  yes.  Annice, 
Annice,  are  you  real  ?  "  He  had  reached  out  a  finger  to 
touch  her  sleeve.  So  many  times  in  sleep  he  had  touched 
her,  and  had  wakened  ! 

u  I  think  I  have  loved  you  from  all  eternity,"  said 
Henry.  "  Before  I  saw  you  I  had  been  puzzled  and  troubled 
about  many  things.  After  that  they  all  fell  into  their 
proper  places.  I  knew  what  they  all  meant  after  I  had 
seen  your  face,  all  life,"  he  •  dded  dreamily. 

Then  they  talked  of  the  days  to  come. 

"  It  isn't  simply  that  we  care,"  said  Henry,  watching 
the  face  beside  him.  "It  is  deeper  than  that.  We  want 
the  same  things,  hope  for  the  same  things,  pray  for  the 
same  things.  Our  souls  were  made  out  of  the  same  piece. 
I  don't  know  what  we  may  not  do  together,  fighting  side 
by  side.  The  thought  of  you  is  armour  and  banner  for 
me.  You  are  just  the  visible  expression  of  all  that  is 
holy." 

"  Fighting  what  ?  "  asked  the  girl. 

"  Fighting  many  things,  corrupt  money  for  instance,"  he 


258  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

answered.  "  There's  your  old  trouble  about  your  father's 
business.  There  is  more  insidious  wrong  mixed  up  with 
unfair  shop-keeping  than  with  anything  else.  Maybe  he 
will  let  you  help  manage  those  establishments  for  him." 
Annice  shook  her  head,  but  he  did  not  see  her.  "  I  had 
no  idea  when  I  began  how  far  this  thing  would  lead  me. 
I  have  no  idea  now  where  it  may  end.  We  will  start  out 
hand  in  hand,  to  see  if  we  cannot  find  a  place  to  work 
where  the  reward  is  fair,  clean,  honest  money.  I  may 
have  to  take  to  digging  potatoes." 

"  I  can  pick  them  up  and  cook  them,"  said  Annice. 
"  We  can  live  on  potatoes  and  salt." 

"  Can  you  stand  poverty  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  whispered  the  girl. 

No  one  came  to  call  them,  and  they  lingered  with  the 
flowers.  They  had  no  thought  of  their  rudeness,  and  were 
utterly  unconscious  of  the  flight  of  time.  One  cannot  tell 
eternity,  and  square  it  with  the  hours  of  the  day.  Twice 
Annice  took  her  answer  back.  Twice  she  yielded  again. 

"  I  didn't  want  to  be  selfishly  happy,"  she  said,  stopping 
and  looking  at  Henry  reproachfully.  u  I  wanted  to  do 
something  to  lessen  the  sum  of  human  suffering.  I  always 
meant  to  devote  myself  to  some  great  need." 

There  was  a  shadow  on  her  face.  The  grand-daughter 
of  the  Puritans  was  mourning  the  loss  of  pain  out  of  her 
life,  for  the  chief  stimulus  in  the  lives  of  generations  of  her 
foremothers  was  failing  her  now.  Henry  had  grasped  the 
motive-power  in  her  nature,  and  he  bowed  his  head  in 
the  dust,  suing  for  her  pity. 

"  No  cause  needs  you  as  I  need  you,"  he  said.  "  My 
life  is  wrecked  if  you  cast  me  off.  Look,  I  have  nothing. 
I  have  taught  wrong  doctrine  at  Winthrop.  My  father  is 
angry  with  me.  My  mother  is  dead.  I  have  nobody  but 
you." 

"  But  that  means  happiness,"  said  the  girl,  slowly.  "  I 
never  knew  about  happiness,  and  it  seems  so  wrong.  I 
don't  care."  She  turned  toward  him  the  face  that  in  the 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  259 

jast  few  weeks  had  grown  out  of  vague  sympathy  into  pas- 
sionate love.  "  I  don't  want  to  be  a  martyr.  I  don't  want 
just  to  be  good.  I  want  you." 

The  setting  sun  was  smiting  the  windows  of  the  house. 
The  lovers  saw  it  with  a  start,  and  its  last  rays  touched 
their  foreheads  as  they  turned  to  go  in.  Annice  stopped 
in  dismay. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot !  "  she  cried.  "I  am  a  disgrace  !  My 
father  says  I  have  made  my  name  a  scandal  by  my  mas- 
querading. I  can't  disgrace  you,  too." 

Henry  looked  down  at  her  surrendered  face.  His  happi- 
ness was  beating  in  his  ears  like  music  too  high  for  him  to 
hear.  He  could  not  grasp  it.  It  blotted  out  past  and 
future.  It  was  end  and  beginning  of  life  for  him. 

"  My  name,  too,  is  a  scandal  in  Winthrop,"  he  said 
gayly.  "  I  am  expecting  every  day  to  be  denounced  in  the 
newspapers,  and  to  be  requested  to  leave  the  university. 
Look  back,"  he  added  hastily. 

The  crimson  flame  of  sunset  was  burning  between  the 
blue  of  the  sky  and  the  green  of  the  trees.  The  gaunt 
branches  of  buttonwood  and  poplar  touched  it  and  yet  were 
not  consumed.  Below  stretched  the  garden,  a  mass  of 
colour  in  the  waning  light. 

"  We  are  both  outcasts,"  said  Henry,  "  sent  out  of  the 
Garden  of  Eden  in  disgrace  to  earn  our  bread  by  the  sweat 
of  our  brows." 

But  the  woman's  face  was  shadowed  with  dim  fore- 
knowledge that  the  measure  of  their  happiness  was  a  promise 
of  the  measure  of  their  pain. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

OY  took  up  her  abode  in  the  great 
house  at  Gordon  Heights.  Through 
dark  days  and  through  fair  the  great 
rooms  seemed  flooded  with  sunshine. 
It  was  so  strange,  Annice  kept  saying 
to  herself,  to  be  there  and  to  be  happy. 
Every  morning  she  rose  with  determina- 
tion to  confess  to  her  father  what  she  had  done.  Every 
day  her  sealed  lips  begged  to  keep  their  secret  one  day 
longer,  and  she  followed  her  father  about  in  silence,  but 
with  the  look  of  one  about  to  speak.  Huge  as  the  house 
was  it  could  not  contain  her  happiness ;  only  the  marshes 
and  the  sea  could  measure  that.  For  hours,  with  the  June 
wind  in  her  hair,  she  watched  the  soft,  silky,  waving  grass, 
half  child  of  the  water,  half  of  the  land,  turning  from  its 
gray  green  and  olive  to  watch  the  blue  of  the  sea.  It  was 
all  one  to  her  whether  the  waves  ran  low  or  high.  It 
was  so  sweet  to  know  the  way  the  great  tides  come  ! 

Her  long-delayed  confession  came  just  at  the  hour  of 
all  hours  when  it  should  not  have  come,  on  Mr.  Gordon's 
return  from  a  round  of  charity-visits  in  North  Winthrop. 
Mr.  Gordon  had  been  on  the  alert  in  fulfilling  his  duties 
that  spring.  Always  conscientious  as  manager,  secretary, 
trustee  of  this  and  that  organization,  he  added  now  to  his 
conscientiousness,  zeal.  To  all  committee-meetings  he 

260 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  261 

went  with  a  punctuality  as  accurate  as  the  movements  of 
his  expensive  watch.  The  family  reputation  had  suffered, 
and  with  him  alone  rested  the  task  of  retrieving  all.  That 
feeling  of  always  standing  alone  for  the  right  gave  pathos 
to  the  lines  about  his  mouth.  He  was  widowed  and  prac- 
tically daughterless.  Annice  had  come  back  to  him,  but 
radiantly  happy,  and  apparently  unconscious  of  the  con- 
fession of  wrong-doing  that  she  ought  to  make  to  him. 
To  be  sure,  she  had  looked  guiltily  at  him,  and  had  been 
visibly  embarrassed  at  surprising  his  glance.  Perhaps  she 
was  on  the  verge  of  acknowledgment  of  all  her  sin :  her 
open  rebellion,  her  defiance,  her  threat  in  regard  to  earning 
her  own  daily  bread.  Meanwhile,  in  all  his  work,  in  the 
charity  visiting  in  District  B,  in  his  long  drives  home  by 
the  sea,  he  yearned  more  than  ever  for  the  sympathy  that 
eluded  him.  He  meditated  much  on  philanthropic  schemes, 
and  always,  across  his  fair  vision  of  possible  good  for  the 
race,  fell  his  own  shadow.  Unappreciated,  misunderstood  ! 

He  was  a  fine  sight  as  he  explored  North  Winthrop, 
with  a  list  of  destitute  families  in  his  pocket.  He  had 
never  before  gone  into  this  work  very  actively,  having 
enrolled  his  name  largely  for  the  sake  of  example.  Now 
no  stone  was  to  be  left  unturned  in  establishing  the  family 
respectability,  and  he  was  very  active.  Something  clerical 
seemed  to  attach  to  his  expression  and  to  his  black  clothes. 
Something  sophisticated  and  worldly  gleamed  in  his  shin- 
ing silk  hat.  His  benevolent  hair  and  beard  shed  light  in 
many  an  alleyway.  Rude  little  street  boys  retreated 
before  him,  and  dirty  little  girls,  playing  at  housekeeping 
with  old  brooms,  swept  orange  peel  and  banana  skins  out 
of  his  way.  Mr.  Gordon  beamed  down  at  them  with 
approval.  That  was  as  it  should  be. 

He  turned  into  Salutation  Street  one  day,  leaving  his 
carriage  to  wait  round  the  corner  while  he  made  a  single 
call.  There  was  a  new  number  in  his  list.  A  woman  on 
the  street  had  three  weeks  ago  reported,  at  the  central 
office  of  the  charity  organization,  a  case  of  two  girls  who 


262  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

apparently  needed  help  and  were  too  proud  to  ask  for  it. 
The  slow  machinery  had  just  moved  round  to  consider  the 
case.  Mr.  Gordon  climbed  three  flights  of  stairs  in  the 
dark,  and  stood  panting  on  the  landing  at  the  top.  A 
feeble  "  Come "  answered  his  knock.  He  entered  the 
room  with  a  feeling  of  unusual  benignity.  He  felt  him- 
self responding  to  the  call  of  suffering,  and  the  sense  of 
this  expanded -his  heart,  making  him  glow  with  charity  — 
toward  himself.  All  nature  seemed  beautiful  to  him  in  the 
light  of  his  present  act. 

A  sick  woman  lay  on  the  bed  in  the  little  room.  Her 
gray  hair  was  parted  over  her  wrinkled  forehead,  and  her 
hands  were  folded.  As  Mr.  Gordon  entered,  there  was 
a  flash  of  recognition  in  her  deep-set  eyes,  but  it  met  none 
from  him.  The  emaciated  woman  before  him  bore  little 
resemblance  to  the  brown-handed  girl  whom  he  had  often 
seen  working  the  fields  for  her  father  years  ago  on  the 
little  farm. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  remarked.  "  Is  there  anything 
I  can  do  for  you  ?  I  was  told  that  somebody  here  needed 
help." 

He  hid  his  silk  hat  behind  a  chair,  remembering,  with 
unusual  tact,  that  in  the  days  of  his  clerkhood  this  article 
of  apparel  had  been  peculiarly  embarrassing  to  him. 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"  No,  I  thank  you,"  said  the  woman,  slowly. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  to  ask,"  he  said  cordially,  rubbing  his 
hands  together.  "  I  am  agent  for  a  society  whose  object 
is  to  do  good,  and  we  like  to  do  it.  Wherever  there  is 
need,  there  it  works.  Its  only  requirement  is  assurance 
of  merit,  and  that,  I  am  sure,  exists  here." 

He  glanced  at  the  clean  patchwork  quilt  on  the  bed,  then 
at  the  neatly  arranged  dishes  on  the  what-not  in  the  corner. 
The  sight  of  an  old  blue  china  teapot  startled  him,  though 
he  did  not  recognize  it.  Subtly  linked  associations  started 
working  in  his  brain  at  the  sight  of  that  curving  handle 
and  the  landscape  on  the  side.  He  saw  his  mother's  face, 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  263 

and  heard  the  click  of  her  knitting-needles,  saw  her  dead  in  the 
coffin,  and  felt  again  the  glance  of  Jane  Burns's  angry  eyes. 

"  Can't  you  think  of  something  you  would  like  ?  "  he 
insisted,  turning  toward  the  face  on  the  pillow.  Those 
pale,  gray,  passionless  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  with  a 
look  of  high  indifference  that  the  gods  might  have  envied. 

"  No,"  said  the  woman. 

"  Is  there  any  need  of  hospital-treatment  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  shook. her  head.  Her  silence  irritated  him.  Always 
unappreciated  !  Even  those,  to  whom  one  would  do  good, 
remained  untouched. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  a  few  weeks  in  the  country  ? "  he 
asked  coaxingly. 

That  last  shaft  was  too  much.  The  tears  crept  down 
the  hollows  in  Jennie  Burns's  cheeks.  He  did  not  see  them. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  on  that  tormenting  blue  teapot. 

"  It's  too  late  to  ask  us  if  we  wouldn't  like  to  stay  in  the 
country,  Samuel  Gordon,"  said  the  sick  woman. 

He  looked  at  her,  helplessly,  then  he  gazed  around  the 
room.  No  object  gave  him  any  clew  to  this  mysterious 
situation,  until,  upon  the  wall,  his  eyes  encountered  the 
eyes  of  Jane  Burns.  Was  that  a  real  picture,  or  was  it 
the  old  fancy  in  his  mind  ?  He  did  not  know.  Why  did 
she  follow  him  everywhere,  he  asked  himself,  fretfully,  this 
cousin  whom  he  had  treated  with  perfect  justice,  and  who 
had  denounced  him  wrongfully  ?  He  turned  from  the  pic- 
ture to  the  woman  on  the  bed,  then  back  to  the  picture,  and 
understood. 

"  You  can't  be  Jennie  ?  "  he  asked.  There  was  some- 
thing besides  surprise  in  his  voice,  something  almost  like 
joy.  He  had  never  known  the  fate  of  that  family,  and  it 
had  worried  him.  Now  he  could  still  his  conscience  by 
doing  them  good. 

"I  don't  wonder  that  you  did  not  know  me,"  said  his 
niece.  "  I  have  changed,  and  God  knows  that  I've  had 
reason  enough.  Don't  look  afraid.  I  am  not  going  to 
reproach  you.  You  took  my  mother's  birthright.  The 


264  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

farm  went  for  debt  and  father  and  mother  died.  It  used 
to  madden  me,  but  someway  I  don't  mind  now.  I  used 
to  think  it  must  be  changed,  for  Mary's  sake.  I  used  to 
pray  for  justice,  but  that's  all  over.  I  think  it  must  be  all 
right  somewhere,  and  I  am  sorriest  for  you." 

Those  faded  eyes  seemed  to  see  into  some  world  beyond 
the  high  silk  hat  and  Prince  Albert  coat  and  the  look  of 
conscious  rectitude  on  the  philanthropist's  face.  Holy 
horror  crept  into  that  face  now,  and  pity  for  this  mis- 
guided woman.  He  met  unflinchingly  the  look  in  Jennie 
Burns's  eyes.  It  was  not  his  idea  of  the  judgment  day,  and 
he  failed  to  recognize  it. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,"  he  said,  "  very  sorry.  It  is  an 
unspeakable  grief  to  me  that  you  should  still  preserve  this 
delusion  of  your  mother's.  I  never  wronged  her.  What 
was  right  for  me  to  do,  I  did  then,  as  always.  Your  mother 
refused  the  aid  I  offered  her.  You  refuse  it  now,  and  yet 
I  repeat  it.  I  will  do  all  for  you  that  is  in  my  power.  I 
will  take  you  away  from  here  and  buy  you  a  home.  I  will 
support  you  in  it.  Will  you  accept  ?  " 

He  was  paternal,  and  his  manner  would  have  graced  the 
stage.  He  waited  for  the  sick  woman's  answer. 

"  No,"  was  all  she  said.  Then  all  her  old  passionate 
feeling,  crushed  out  and  beaten  down  from  day  to  day  by 
the  iron  heel  of  fate,  rose  to  one  great  outburst,  and  her  bed 
shook  with  long-drawn  sobs. 

"  I  want  my  own,"  she  cried,  stretching  her  arms  up  to 
grasp  the  head  of  her  bed,  u  my  very  own.  I  want  my 
father  and  my  mother,  and  my  little  girl  with  red  cheeks. 
Father  and  mother  are  dead,  and  the  little  one  is  worn  out 
as  I  am.  You  can't  give  them  back  to  me,  and  I  don't 
want  anything  you  can  give." 

Mr.  Gordon  had  risen,  and  he  stood  with  his  hand 
grasping  the  knob  of  the  door.  He  gave  his  cousin  a  bene- 
dictory glance  for  farewell,  and  hurried  down  the  stairs  with 
haste  that  endangered  his  life.  With  unspeakable  relief 
he  stepped  into  his  carriage,  and  started  on  his  long  drive 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  265 

toward  home.  When  he  reached  the  outskirts  of  the  city 
he  lifted  his  hat  to  let  the  wind  play  on  his  forehead  and 
through  his  gray  hair.  How  all  things  conspired  to  mock 
him  !  Because  of  his  steadfast  purpose,  people  and  things 
had  always  been  leagued  together  to  buffet  and  baffle  him, 
yet  even  unto  death  would  he  persist  in  the  right.  The 
lingering  suspicion  of  wrong  in  regard  to  the  matter  of  the 
will  had  been  set  at  rest  by  Jennie's  accusation.  There 
had  been  martyrs  in  the  family  before,  and  persecution  from 
outside  had  always  meant  rectitude  within.  The  hereditary 
psychology  of  the  Gordon  family  was  at  work.  He  had 
done  right  in  that  matter.  Jane  Burns's  attack  had  con- 
vinced him  of  that  in  the  first  place,  only  that  was  long 
past,  and  its  force  was  somewhat  spent.  Even  so,  his 
conviction  of  the  entire  righteousness  of  Smith's  had  become 
fixed  and  immovable  through  Annice's  attack  upon  it. 

Far  ofF,  on  the  hilltop,  he  saw  his  great  stone  palace,  and 
he  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  it  in  pride.  It  dominated  nature, 
and  ruled  both  sea  and  shore.  The  pale  blue  of  the  sea, 
the  delicate  green  of  the  land,  and  the  filmy  clouds  of  this 
noon-day  sky  were  only  a  background  for  it.  That  inher- 
ited sanctity  of  expression,  which  had  covered  a  multitude 
of  sins,  deepened  in  the  old  man's  face  as  he  gazed.  Truly 
the  lines  had  fallen  to  him  in  pleasant  places,  and  he  had 
a  goodly  heritage.  Truly,  he  had  been  singled  out  and 
chosen  for  special  marks  of  the  divine  favour. 

Annice  was  waiting  for  him  on  the  verandah,  leaning 
against  a  pillar,  and  looking  very  guilty  in  her  great  happi- 
ness. She  tried  to  speak,  and  failed.  Oh,  she  did  love 
him,  no  one  could  ever  tell  how!  but  could  she  let  her 
father  know  ? 

"  Father,"  she  said. 

"  My  daughter !  " 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

Mr.  Gordon  subdued  the  satisfaction  on  his  face  into  an 
expression  of  pure  forgiveness.  The  long-delayed  confes- 
sion of  penitence  was  coming  at  last. 


266  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

"  I  may  have  done  wrong  not  to  tell  you  before,"  said 
the  girl,  "only — "  the  flush  that  dyed  her  face  and  neck 
was  emphasized  by  the  white  duck  gown  she  wore  — 
"only,  I  couldn't.  And  it  wasn't  my  fault  that  it  hap- 
pened." 

Mr.  Gordon  looked  at  her  inquiringly. 

"  And  it's  not  my  place  to  tell  you  now,"  said  the  girl, 
stammering,  "but  I  thought  maybe  it  would  be  nicer  to 
mention  it  before  he  comes  — " 

The  father's  face  was  a  study.  Was  his  daughter,  in- 
deed, as  people  said,  insane? 

"  It's  nothing,"  said  Annice,  "  only,  I've  promised  to 
marry  Henry  Worthington." 

She  was  horribly  ashamed,  and  sorry  for  her  father. 
Really,  her  conduct  had  been  outrageous.  She  wished  that 
she  had  never  come  home ;  then,  that  she  had  never  gone 
away  in  the  first  place.  If  her  father  could  only  have  been 
warned  in  some  way !  Why  did  he  stand  there,  staring  at 
her  like  that  ?  He  could  not  be  angry,  or  he  would  burst 
out  into  angry  words.  She  would  do  anything  in  the  world 
to  make  up  for  it,  anything  except  giving  Henry  up.  Last 
week  she  could  have  done  even  that,  perhaps,  but  now,  never. 
Turning  her  eyes  toward  the  sea,  she  still  felt  the  terror  of 
her  father's  glance,  and  they  stood  there,  her  cheeks  grow- 
ing white  as  his  grew  red.  What  had  she  done  ?  His  face 
was  like  stone,  and  his  eyes  were  like  flame.  She  had  been 
wicked,  but  she  had  not  been  so  wicked  as  that. 

"  I  presume  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Gordon,  with  un- 
wonted self-control,  "  that  that  young  man  has  insulted 
your  father  from  a  public  platform.  In  a  recent  lecture 
at  Winthrop  University  he  took  occasion  to  tell  his  students 
that  I  am  a  dishonourable  man,  that  my  money  is  not  fit  to 
touch,  and  that  I  am  not  fit  to  know.  That  may  be  what 
attracted  you.  It  is  quite  in  line  with  your  own  conduct." 

He  turned  to  go.  The  sunlight  touched  the  old  man's 
gray  hair,  and  showed  with  pitiless  clearness  how  deep  his 
wrinkles  were.  The  self-pity  of  the  face  became  for  the 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  267 

moment  almost  like  a  halo.  For  his  daughter,  a  rush  of 
indignant  pity  swept  away  all  the  passion  and  the  pleasure 
and  the  pain  of  the  spring.  It  was  shameful  for  a  young 
man  to  be  striking  out  against  an  old  one,  old,  and  her 
father !  She  sprang  forward  and  kissed  him. 

"  Fm  sorry,  I'm  sorry,"  she  cried.  "  I  did  not  know. 
I  won't  do  it  now,  of  course." 

Mr.  Gordon  was  deeply  gratified.  The  wrath  in  his 
daughter's  eyes  was  balm  to  his  hurt.  The  working  of 
her  face  he  did  not  understand ;  he  had  never  yet  noticed 
that  quiver  in  her  chin,  but  he  felt  that  at  last  the  erring 
lamb  had  come  home.  He  patted  the  girl's  cheek  with 
heavy  fingers  that  hurt. 

"  There,  there,"  he  cried  magnanimously.  "  It's  all 
right." 

Annice  had  a  tiny  note  in  her  hand.  It  was  the  first 
love-letter  she  had  ever  written.  She  tore  it  up  into  little 
pieces.  One  of  them  the  wind  caught,  and  a  scrap  of 
paper  bearing  the  word  "  Beloved,"  floated  away  over  the 
sunlit  marsh.  Her  mind  was  in  a  tumult  like  that  of  a 
tempestuous  sea.  She  did  care  about  her  father.  For 
the  first  time  she  knew  that  clearly.  Pity  for  him, 
and  a  feeling  of  injury  done  herself,  and  that  great  love 
which  demands  that  each  act  of  the  beloved  shall  be  as 
lofty  as  one's  thought  of  him,  tore  her  heart  in  twain. 
She  grasped  all  the  remaining  bits  of  her  note  close  in  her 
hot  hand  and  went  upstairs. 

Miss  Annice  was  not  coming  to  luncheon,  the  maid 
said.  She  was  not  hungry,  and  she  had  something  to  do. 
For  once,  Mr.  Gordon  did  not  interfere.  He  ate  his  steak 
in  thankfulness,  and  retired  to  his  own  room  to  take  a  nap. 
He  was  dreaming  that  he  had  founded  a  home  for  aged 
women,  when  he  was  roused  by  a  knock.  The  maid  en- 
tered, holding  out  an  unsealed  letter,  and  saying  that  Miss 
Annice  said  he  was  to  read  it  and  to  see  if  it  was  all  right. 
Mr.  Gordon  sat  up  in  haste.  One  cheek  was  very  red  and 
his  hair  was  tumbled. 


268  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

"  Dear  Mr.  Worthington,"  said  the  letter,  written 
with  unusually  black  marks  on  the  heavy  cream-coloured 
note-paper ;  "  you  will  hardly  expect  me,  after  hearing  of 
your  lecture,  to  consider  myself  in  any  way  bound  to  you. 
It  perhaps  has  not  occurred  to  you  that  my  father's  destiny 
and  mine  are  rather  closely  connected.  I  will  not  reproach 
you;  I  will  merely  say  good-bye. 

"  Sincerely  yours, 

"  ANNICE  GORDON." 

Mr.  Gordon  nodded  approvingly. 

"  It's  all  right,"  he  said,  and  he  lay  down  again  on  the 
lounge.  The  cool  horsehair  soothed  his  warm  cheek.  He 
loved  this  lounge.  It  was  the  image  of  one  that  had  stood 
in  the  old  parlour  at  home  when  he  was  a  boy.  He  used 
to  sit  on  it  when  the  minister  came,  and  that  minister  had 
always  had  prayers.  Mr.  Gordon  could  remember  sliding 
slowly  down  it  as  the  clergyman  had  read  from  Leviticus. 
He  was  going  to  sleep  again,  glad  that  this  matter  was 
settled.  Annice  was  a  more  dutiful  child  than  he  had 
imagined. 

The  maid  took  the  letter  back  to  her  mistress.  Annice 
sat  looking  down  upon  it,  white  with  an  anger  almost  as 
intense  as  her  love ;  then  she  put  on  a  sailor  hat  and  started 
to  take  it  to  the  post-office  herself,  not  wishing  to  trust  it 
to  anybody  else.  She  went  slowly  down  the  gravelled 
driveway  and  along  the  village  street  to  the  tiny  office 
where  Mr.  Gordon  had  a  box  side  by  side  with  that  of 
Mike  McGoon,  the  cabbage-raiser.  Then  she  turned 
and  walked  swiftly  toward  the  sea. 

The  motion  in  the  warm  air  brought  colour  to  her 
cheeks.  Moisture  gathered  on  her  forehead  as  she  pushed 
on.  Yonder  were  the  rocks  !  Picking  her  way  over  the 
shingle,  she  rounded  a  corner  of  cliff  and  came  out  by  the 
water.  It  was  low  tide.  Far  out  the  pale  blue  water 
was  retreating  from  the  yellow  sand.  Near,  great  stones, 
covered  with  dank  mud,  lay  simmering  in  the  sun.  There 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  269 

was  no  life,  no  motion  anywhere.  Annice  climbed  to  a 
shelf  among  the  rocks,  a  shady  spot  where  she  had  passed 
many  hours,  years  ago,  then  she  shut  her  eyes,  and  leaned 
back  her  head  like  a  tired  child.  The  hands  that  lay 
powerless  in  her  lap  were  full  of  pathetic  weariness.  Her 
face  was  all  pain. 

A  little  sandpiper  crept  near,  below  on  the  sand. 
Gulls  flew  overhead,  and  song-sparrows  came  to  linger 
among  the  wild  rose-bushes  that  grew  higher  on  the  cliff. 
Hour  after  hour  passed.  Annice  did  not  open  her  eyes, 
and  yet  she  was  not  asleep.  She  was  listening  to  the 
murmurs  of  the  sea.  It  was  always  to  be  for  her  hence- 
forth, she  said  to  herself,  like  this  desolate  beach,  with  its 
far-retreating  water.  After  hopelessness  and  desolation, 
life  and  the  joy  of  life  had  been  hers,  and  she  had  thrown 
them  away. 

"  I  did  not  want  to  let  him  go,"  she  moaned  to  herself, 
"  I  loved  him  so."  Her  hands  were  clasped  so  firmly 
together  that  the  clasp  was  pain.  How  he  had  helped  her  ! 
For  the  firm  guidance  of  that  strong  young  hand  she  had 
put  everything  at  his  feet  —  all  her  love,  all  her  devotion, 
and  he  had  said  things  like  that  about  her  father,  hers ! 
She  thought  how  she  had  waived  her  scruples  about  duty, 
and  had  given  her  conscience  into  his  keeping. 

UI  trusted  him,"  she  murmured,  "and  he  has  done  this 
thing." 

Why  had  he  done  it  ?  What  had  he  been  trying  to 
prove  ?  A  personal  attack  could  hardly  help  his  work  of 
reform.  The  exaggerated  words  her  father  had  used  came 
back  to  her,  "  A  dishonest  man,  not  fit  to  know."  In  the 
midst  of  it  all  Henry's  face  appeared,  as  clearly  as  if  he 
were  standing  before  her :  the  honest  gray  eyes,  the  sensi- 
tive mouth,  the  beautiful  forehead,  the  air  of  good-breeding. 
She  started  up  with  wide-opened  eyes. 

"  He  never  did  it,"  she  said  indignantly.  "  They  told 
my  father  wrong.  He  never  could  have  done  a  thing  like 
that." 


270  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

She  curled  back  into  the  rock  again,  a  little  heap  of 
misery.  It  was  all  over.  Written  words  could  not  be 
unwritten,  and  her  accusation  of  Henry  was  in  his  hands 
by  this  time.  She  had  promised  him  a  letter  for  to-day, 
and  that  she  had  torn  up.  His  was  still  in  her  pocket,  and 
she  took  it  out,  holding  it  between  her  hot  fingers.  It  was 
not  hers  any  longer,  she  told  herself,  but  the  touch  of  it 
was  sweet.  Yes,  it  was  all  over,  and  it  was  well  for 
Henry  that  he  had  escaped.  A  woman  who,  even  for 
three  hours,  had  believed  a  report  like  that  was  not  fit  to 
be  his  wife.  The  great  simplicity  and  the  great  nobleness 
of  that  nature  deserved  something  worthier  than  she  could 
ever  be. 

The  tide  had  begun  to  turn.  There  was  a  breeze  over 
the  water,  and  a  little  stir  of  wakening  life  rippled  down 
the  sand.  The  thirsty  marsh-grass  waited  for  the  water 
to  come  back.  The  girl  sat  on  the  rocks  and  watched  it 
all  with  eyes  from  which  the  new  hope  had  faded.  Shadows 
grew  longer  as  the  sun  sank  in  the  west,  and  long  shafts  of 
light  turned  to  gold  the  curling  edges  of  the  little  waves. 
The  higher  rocks  were  covered  now,  as  the  tide  came 
throbbing  in.  Annice  could  hear  the  beat  of  the  water 
in  the  marshes,  where  the  long  grasses  quivered  as  the 
water  washed  through  them  again.  There  was  a  thrill 
along  the  sand  and  through  the  marshes. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

T  was  Commencement  Day.  The  city 
was  warm  with  June  sunshine  and  sweet 
with  the  odour  of  freshly  mown  grass. 
The  commencement  guests  in  their  gay 
clothing,  walking  in  the  shadow  of  the 
trees  and  past  the  close-clipped  lawns, 
were  as  gay  as  a  group  of  Boccaccio's 
men  and  women  on  the  hills  of  Fiesole. 

This  great  day  of  the  year  was  full  of  excitement  in 
Winthrop.  In  the  afternoon  came  the  solemn  chapel- 
exercises.  Trustees  and  faculty,  assembling  on  the  campus, 
marched  in  line  to  the  chapel  platform.  Behind  them  filed 
the  seniors  in  cap  and  gown,  to  sit  through  the  Latin  ora- 
tion and  the  commencement  address,  facing  the  rows  of 
gray  heads  upon  the  platform.  The  veteran  sons  of  the 
university,  grouped  on  the  left,  looked  on  and  listened. 
For  all,  faculty,  trustees,  alumni,  students,  throughout  the 
old  worn  ceremony  rang  the  watchwords  of  a  common 
hope. 

Henry  and  his  father  stood  in  the  library  at  home,  ready, 
in  cap  and  gown,  for  the  afternoon.  Professor  Worthing- 
ton's  face  was  full  of  light.  The  blow  he  had  dreaded  had 
not  come.  Henry  had  received  no  official  censure,  and  the 
father  was  happy.  This  was  his  day  of  triumph.  The 
time  had  come  for  his  son  to  sit  in  state  with  him  upon 


272  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

the  chapel  platform  upon  Commencement  Day.  He  looked 
at  his  son,  then  at  his  wife's  writing-desk,  then  at  Henry 
again,  and  was  silent. 

That  Henry  was  troubled  Worthington  was  well  aware. 
He  had  seen  him  last  night,  before  the  gas  was  lighted, 
contract  his  forehead  over  his  tightly  shut  eyes  and  clench 
his  hands,  as  if  in  pain.  He  noticed  that  Henry  was  only 
half  conscious  of  what  was  going  on.  Whether  it  was 
penitence  for  his  rash  course,  or  apprehension  in  regard  to 
the  future,  or  misunderstanding  with  Miss  Gordon,  the 
professor  did  not  know.  He  wished  that  he  did.  But 
Henry  gave  him  no  clew.  Of  that  cruel  little  letter  in  his 
pocket  there  was  no  outward  or  visible  sign.  He  wore  it 
as  a  man  wears  a  dagger  in  his  breast.  Henry  straightened 
now  his  father's  cap,  and  arranged  the  tassel  on  the  proper 
side.  He  suggested  a  few  minutes  on  the  verandah  for  a 
breath  of  fresh  air  before  they  started. 

"  It  will  be  abominably  hot  in  the  chapel,"  said  Henry. 
They  were  walking  up  and  down  side  by  side  when  the 
postman  met  them. 

"  It's  a  letter  that  came  last  night,"  he  said,  smiling 
apologetically.  "  It  got  caught  in  the  bag  and  was  over- 
looked. Hope  it's  nothing  serious,  sir  ?  " 

Henry  was  reading  the  letter  with  an  unmoved  face. 
He  handed  it  to  his  father  without  a  word. 

The  secretary  of  the  Board  of  Trustees  had  written 
with  regret  to  Associate  Professor  Henry  Worthington  to 
say  that  at  a  meeting  of  the  Board  on  June  first,  it  had  been 
considered  necessary  to  examine  into  his  teaching  of  eco- 
nomic doctrine  at  Winthrop.  It  had  been  found  that  he  had 
uttered  in  his  class-room  opinions  running  counter  to  the 
established  order  of  things  —  opinions,  socialistic  in  ten- 
dency, and  dangerous  to  young  men.  The  possible  con- 
sequences of  such  teaching  were  foreseen  by  the  trustees 
to  be  so  serious  that  they  were  unanimous,  with  one 
exception,  in  recommending  Associate  Professor  Worth- 
ington's  resignation. 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  273 

Alfred  Worthington's  face  turned  white,  but  Henry 
drew  a  sigh  of  deep  relief. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,"  said  the  boy.  There  was  no 
shame  in  his  face.  It  showed  deeper  lines  now  about  the 
mouth  than  it  had  worn  in  early  winter.  The  strain  of 
teaching,  the  pain  of  decision,  the  hurt  of  the  last  few  days 
had  left  traces  there.  He  turned  to  enter  the  house,  then 
faced  his  father,  grasping  the  older  man's  hand. 

"  I  don't  mind  the  disgrace,  for  myself,  a  bit,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  can't  stand  vexing  you.  Of  course,  I  can't  go 
with  you  to-day.  Father,"  he  added  desperately,  "don't 
you  see  that  I  couldn't  do  anything  else  ?  " 

Alfred  Worthington's  eyes  were  resting  on  the  hemlock 
tree.  Tall  and  straight  it  stood  against  the  intense  blue 
sky.  The  look  on  his  face  as  he  turned  toward  Henry, 
satisfied  the  boy.  Henry  went  back  to  the  library.  The 
professor  walked  alone  down  the  street. 

"  Where's  Henry  ?  "  asked  Professor  Penrose,  as  Worth- 
ington  took  his  place  among  his  colleagues  on  the  campus. 
They  stood  in  groups,  looking,  in  their  black  academic 
garb,  like  an  assembly  of  great  crows  in  a  young  corn-field. 
But  Penrose  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  and  he  stopped 
the  next  person  who  started  to  ask  Worthington  that 
question.  Another  man  —  it  was  Professor  Bellingham  — 
succeeded  in  making  this  inquiry  of  Worthington.  He 
found  himself  sharply  nudged  in  the  ribs. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  said  a  voice  in  his  ear,  and  he 
was  aware  of  the  presence  of  Benedict  Warren,  who,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  had  come  to  take  his  place  among 
the  trustees  upon  the  commencement  platform. 

In  the  chapel  the  organ  began  playing  the  Pilgrim 
Chorus  from  Tannhauser,  and  the  procession  started, 
and  moved  on,  in  its  mediaeval  garb,  a  solemn  shadow  across 
the  grass.  Two  by  two  they  filed  to  the  platform,  silver 
hair  against  the  black.  Gordon  was  there,  looking  impor- 
tant; Professor  Bellingham  was  merely  sleepy.  An  un- 
wonted expression  of  definite  content  had  replaced,  for  the 


274  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

time  being,  the  wandering  glance  of  Penrose's  race.  He 
had  an  unwonted  sense  of  belonging  to  it  all,  this  world  of 
faces  old  and  young,  and  of  solemn  organ  music.  Warren 
was  supremely  uncomfortable,  but  he  managed  during  the 
opening  prayer  to  think  out  a  new  dodge  for  the  flies  he 
used  as  bait.  Worthington  glanced  around  the  platform 
and  realized  that  all  his  colleagues  in  the  university,  all  the 
business  men  who  represented  the  city  he  loved,  knew  of 
his  son's  disgrace,  or  would  know  of  it  to-morrow.  He 
looked,  too,  about  the  crowded  chapel,  where  bright  gowns 
blazed  against  the  sombre  black  of  the  men's  garments, 
and  realized  the  whole. 

But  he  realized  it  with  a  curious  sense  of  indifference. 
The  family  traditions  were  dishonoured ;  the  blow  had 
fallen ;  but  the  professor  was  conscious  only  of  a  cessation 
of  the  pain  of  the  last  few  months.  The  opening  address 
by  the  president  was  begun,  but  Worthington  heard  only 
broken  bits  of  this  stately  Latin  oration.  He  was  listening, 
though  he  did  not  know  it,  listening  in  that  old  fashion  for 
the  boy's  footstep.  The  soft  tiptoeing  of  the  ushers  startled 
him.  That  footfall  of  Henry  —  he  could  always  tell  it 
among  a  hundred ;  every  step  seemed  to  fall  upon  his 
heart.  He  knew  that  the  boy  was  at  home  to-day. 
Whence  was  this  irresistible  conviction  that  he  was  coming 
nearer  and  nearer  ? 

There  was  a  pause.  The  Latin  speech  was  over.  The 
orator  of  the  day  had  half  risen  for  his  introduction  when 
the  president  stepped  forward  saying  that  he  had  an  an- 
nouncement to  make.  As  they  had  doubtless  learned  from 
the  newspapers,  through  the  munificence  of  their  honoured 
colleague,  Mr.  Samuel  Gordon,  five  hundred  thousand 
dollars  had,  early  in  the  year,  been  added  to  the  working 
funds  of  one  of  the  scientific  departments.  It  seemed  fit- 
ting that,  on  this  day,  special  mention  should  be  made  of 
this  generous  gift,  and  that  the  sons  of  the  university,  and 
her  friends  from  outside,  should  know  that  the  application 
of  these  funds  to  the  needs  of  the  department  in  question 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  275 

had  already  been  begun.  A  ripple  of  applause  started,  was 
hushed,  because  of  the  sacredness  of  the  place,  thundered 
forth  and  resounded  again  and  again  against  the  rafters, 
Gordon's  white  beard  gleamed  benevolence.  Appreciation 
was  his  at  last !  Curious  eyes  looked  at  Worthington ; 
even  the  president's  eyelids  twitched  as  he  glanced  that 
way.  But  Alfred  Worthington  did  not  move  a  muscle. 
He  heard,  but  he  did  not  heed.  The  Gordon  gift  was 
nothing  to  him  now.  He  was  thinking  about  Henry,  and 
had  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hand,  ashamed  of  his  soften- 
ing mood.  The  feeling  of  irritation  in  the  boy's  having 
convictions  not  his  own,  had  vanished.  That  sense  of 
separation  caused  by  the  intrusion  of  a  girl's  face  between 
them  was  gone.  Even  his  censure  of  Henry's  discourtesy 
to  a  fellow-man  disappeared,  replaced  by  a  deep  satisfac- 
tion in  sharing  his  child's  disgrace.  His,  bis,  his,  banded 
together  even  by  this  shame  against  all  the  world.  Some- 
thing possessed  the  father  entirely,  a  love  without  impa- 
tience, love  that  would  suffer  long  and  be  kind.  Strong  as 
the  tide  of  a  great  ocean,  it  carried  him  out  toward  the 
eternal. 

A  ray  of  June  sunshine,  falling  through  stained  glass, 
made  halos  round  half  a  dozen  heads.  It  touched  Worth- 
ington's,  bowed  slightly,  as  he  said  to  himself  that  he  was 
not  fit  to  be  the  minister  of  a  love  so  great.  For  he 
touched  in  it  the  perfectness  that  comes  through  suffering. 
In  the  peace  of  the  larger  moment  he  was  glad  of  all  the 
pain. 

Then  he  was  conscious  of  one  thing,  one  thing  only,  a 
sharp  apprehension.  The  air  grew  chilly  with  a  sudden 
fear.  Henry  must  go  away;  he  must  seek  work  else- 
where, and  live  henceforth  beyond  his  father's  touch.  The 
hurt  of  that  thought  to  the  gray-haired  man  no  one  could 
know.  Throughout  the  rest  of  the  exercises  this  dread 

O 

held  him  in  a  kind  of  dream.  Suddenly  he  became  aware 
that  the  Seniors  had  risen.  One  by  one  they  advanced  to 
the  president,  who  bent,  gave  each  his  diploma,  repeat- 


276  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

ing,  the  old  Latin  formula,  beginning  with  the  words  •. 
"  Auctoritate  commissa  mihi  —  ."  It  was  the  passing  on 
of  the  torch  from  old  hands  to  the  young.  Worthington's 
eyes  were  pitiful.  One  after  another  they  stepped  onward. 
Each  one  to  him  was  Henry.  Each  face  in  that  pro- 
cession was  to  him  a  new  good-bye. 

He  tried  to  avoid  Warren's  glance,  which  was  anxiously 
fixed  upon  him.  He  wanted  to  escape,  even  from  his 
friend.  When  the  grave  assembly  broke  up,  Professor 
Worthington  passed  through  the  crowd,  avoiding  the  sym- 
pathetic glances  that  were  cast  toward  him,  and  disappeared. 
He  wanted  only  his  work.  That  had  never  failed  him 
yet.  He  hurried  to  his  laboratory  and  mounted  the  stairs. 
The  sight  of  the  familiar  apparatus,  the  long  desks,  his 
microscope,  his  boxes  of  slides,  soothed  him.  The  silence 
was  good.  He  laid  down  his  hat,  put  under  the  micro- 
scope a  specimen  he  had  prepared  yesterday,  and  sat  down 
to  look  at  it,  with  a  sudden  sense  of  escape. 

Outside  on  the  campus  was  a  hum  and  roar  of  words. 
The  dignified  excitement  of  Winthrop's  Commencement 
Day  had  never  extended  to  confusion  like  this.  Groups  of 
ladies  chattered  with  the  sound  of  many  voices.  Trustees 
of  Winthrop  talked  in  twos  and  threes,  gravely  shaking 
their  heads.  Swarms  of  undergraduates  gathered  and  dis- 
persed, listening  to  one  another,  or  pausing  to  hear  some 
self-elected  orator  who  held  the  attention  of  the  circle  near 
him  for  a  minute  or  two.  The  guests  of  the  occasion  suf- 
fered a  feeling  of  neglect.  The  attention  of  their  hosts 
seemed  to  be  centred  elsewhere. 

"  It's  as  bad  as  Russian  despotism,"  said  little  Allan 
Hayes,  fiercely,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  shoulders  held 
sternly  back.  "They'll  be  sending  everybody  who  dares 
speak  his  mind  off  to  Siberia  presently."  He  glared  at  the 
trustees.  "  Worthington  hasn't  his  equal  as  a  man  and 
a  scholar  in  the  whole  university,"  he  added. 

"  Might  as  well  have  the  Star  Chamber  back  again, 
every  bit !  "  observed  a  newly  made  alumnus,  who  still 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  277 

grasped  in  his  hand  his  roll  of  sheepskin.  "  The  freedom 
of  the  press,  and  the  French  Revolution,  and  the  Declaration 
of  Independence  haven't  counted  at  all.  Let's  go  back  to 
the  Middle  Ages  and  wear  metal  collars  round  our  necks, 
and  have  chains  attached  to  them  so  the  trustees  can  lead 
us  around." 

The  news  of  Henry  Worthington's  deposition  travelled 
fast.  The  wife  of  a  trustee  had  confided  it  to  a  friend 
during  the  chapel  exercises.  The  faculty  soon  knew  it. 
It  spread  through  the  ranks  of  the  alumni.  The  under- 
graduates took  it  up.  To  them,  it  savoured  of  tyranny, 
and  their  sympathy  turned  all  toward  its  victim.  Young 
Worthington  was  a  favourite.  He  played  base-ball.  He 
had  treated  his  students  as  if  there  were  no  yawning  gulf  of 
ignorance  fixed  between  him  and  them,  and  had  actually 
confessed  in  his  class-room  that  there  were  many  things  he 
did  not  know.  Even  those  who  had  no  personal  acquaint- 
ance with  the  young  professor  had  caught  that  contagious 
enthusiasm  which  spreads  so  readily  through  the  ranks  of 
the  young.  Now,  a  crowd  of  students  gathered  near  one  of 
the  chapter  houses  and  sang  lustily  an  improvised  song :  — 

*'  If  you've  got  an  idee 
Don't  tell  a  trustee. 
He'll  bounce  you,  you  see, 
If  you've  got  an  idee  —  " 

Warren  was  trying  to  find  his  friend.  He  grumbled  a 
little  when  his  quest  proved  vain.  Sitting  on  a  chapel 
platform  for  two  hours  had  made  him  a  moral  wreck.  He 
had  come  with  a  notion  of  protecting  Worthington,  just 
how  he  did  not  know.  A  man  who  was  willing  to  give  up 
smoking  a  whole  afternoon  for  a  purpose  like  that  ought 
to  be  allowed  to  carry  it  out.  He  sniffed  about  the  campus 
like  a  dog  on  the  scent,  but  to  no  purpose.  He  heard  a 
group  of  ladies  talking  about  Henry. 

"  Such  bad  taste,"  said  one.  "  So  hard  for  his  father," 
said  another. 


278  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

Warren  gnawed  his  under-lip. 

Near  the  founder's  statue  stood  Gordon.  All  his  friends 
had  rallied  round  him,  and  they  were  talking  of  the  munifi- 
cence of  the  gift.  Gordon  looked  satisfied  and  complacent, 
wearing  an  expression  not  unlike  that  of  an  idol  with  its 
set  bronze  smile.  His  reward  had  come  at  last.  The 
submission  of  his  daughter,  the  applause  of  his  fellow- 
townsmen,  were  his.  Warren  looked  about  him  and  cursed 
them  all.  Commencement  was  only  an  infernal  row, 
arranged  for  the  purpose  of  making  people,  notably  Alfred 
Worthington,  uncomfortable.  And  all  these  men  and 
women  standing  about  in  the  way  seemed  to  exist  only  for 
the  purpose  of  maltreating  his  friend. 

Warren  went  home.  So,  at  last,  did  everybody  else. 
Girls  in  light  gowns,  with  faded  roses,  followed  their 
mothers  away.  The  students  collected  for  the  last  meal 
at  the  commons.  Penrose  conducted  his  sister  politely 
down  Wiclif  Street  to  St.  Paul. 

Mrs.  Appleton  was  moved.  Commencement  always 
appealed  to  her.  It  linked  the  present  with  the  past.  It 
was  the  one  moment  of  emotion  in  the  long  gray  academic 
year.  Old  memories  clustered  round  it  —  and  her  new 
gown  fitted  well. 

"  Poor  Henry,"  she  said  sympathetically.  "  I  am  so 
sorry  for  him.  He  meant  well,  but  it  was  such  a  blunder. 
Can't  those  trustees  take  his  youth  into  account  ? " 

"  We  can't  afford  to  pity  people  whose  principles  are 
stronger  than  our  own,"  said  Penrose.  His  voice  had  an 
unnatural  sound. 

"Virgil!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Appleton. 

u  The  boy  was  right,"  said  Penrose,  firmly. 

Astonishment  robbed  Mrs.  Appleton  of  both  the  "  retort 
courteous  "  and  the  "  quip  modest."  If  there  was  a  touch 
of  the  "  counter-check  quarrelsome  "  in  her  next  remark, 
there  was  yet  more  human  sympathy  of  a  fine  practical 
order. 

"  Virgil,"  she  said,  "  we've  done  nothing  permanent  for 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  279 

those  Burns  sisters.  I've  been  thinking  about  it  all  the 
afternoon.  As  you  have  taken  no  action,  I  am  going  to 
buy  back  that  miserable  farm,  and  rent  it  to  them  for 
nothing." 

It  was  Penrose's  minute  of  triumph.  They  had  been 
rare  in  his  life  with  Juliette. 

"  I  have  already  done  so,"  he  answered,  looking  at  her 
with  his  calm  brown  eyes. 

Even  Worthington  went  home  at  last,  but  not  until  he  had 
been  summoned  by  Henry.  It  grew  dark.  Henry  walked 
impatiently  up  and  down  Wiclif  Street  under  the  flickering 
brightness  and  shadow  of  electric  lights.  Groups  of  revellers 
passed  him.  Strains  of  music  floated  from  the  gymnasium, 
for  people  were  dancing  there.  He  grew  uneasy.  Walking 
down  to  the  laboratory  he  saw,  in  his  father's  window,  the 
light  of  the  gas  falling  on  the  gray  head  and  quick  hands. 
It  was  all  right.  The  boy  went  leaping  up  the  stairs  and 
burst  into  the  room.  It  was  not  a  tragic  face  that  greeted 
him.  Worthington  was  standing  at  a  sink,  a  towel  tied 
round  his  waist,  in  guise  of  an  apron,  washing  slides  in 
soap  and  water. 

"  Why,  I  had  forgotten  all  about  supper ! "  said  the 
father. 

They  cooked  their  evening  meal  on  the  library  table,  in 
a  chafing  dish.  For  months  they  had  not  been  so  merry. 
The  shadow  of  the  past  had  faded  away.  The  professor 
told  his  son  how  Bellingham  had  gone  to  sleep  during  the 
oration.  Henry  told  his  father  that  Warren  had  been  at 
the  house  looking  for  him. 

"  He  won't  speak  to  me,"  said  Henry,  with  a  laugh. 
To  both  it  seemed  an  excellent  joke. 

The  excitement  died  out  in  Winthrop.  Everybody  went 
away  to  the  mountains  or  to  the  sea.  The  trustees  pro- 
ceeded with  their  business,  or  their  leisure,  as  the  case 
might  be,  one  occasionally  deigning  to  explain  at  the  club, 
his  feet  on  the  nearest  chair,  just  why  it  was  that  the 
teacher  of  a  dangerous  heresy  had  been  expelled  from  their 


28o  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

academic  walls.  A  new  candidate  was  found  for  the  posi- 
tion, and  the  trouble  was  over. 

Henry  and  his  father  stayed  on  in  Lancaster  Place.  The 
sympathizing  friends  who  called  found  it  hard  to  sympa- 
thize, for  the  father  was  unusually  happy,  and  the  son  con- 
cealed the  misery  in  his  heart.  The  two  men,  in  their 
lonely  life,  resumed  their  old  habits,  working  half  the  day, 
for  Alfred  Worthington's  zeal  for  science  had  come  back 
to  him  with  added  strength.  In  the  late  afternoons  they 
walked  by  the  water,  and  past  the  long  stretches  of  waving 
grass  in  the  marshes.  In  the  evening  they  sat  on  the 
verandah  with  their  chairs  tipped  back,  revelling  in  each 
other's  silence.  Perhaps  because  the  daily  routine  of  term 
work  was  over,  time  seemed  to  have  stopped,  and  the  long, 
cloudless  summer  days  to  have  launched  them  into  eternity. 

Night  after  night  Henry  lived  over  the  story  of  his  brief 
life  with  Annice,  said  the  old  words  again,  touched  her 
gown  once  more.  He  formed  some  bitter,  abstract  views, 
the  first  he  had  ever  had,  about  women.  The  fancied 
wavering  of  the  girl's  love  for  him  revealed  to  him  for  the 
first  time  the  beauty  of  his  father's  devotion.  "  Passing 
the  love  of  women,"  murmured  Henry,  one  evening,  as  he 
watched  his  father  in  the  twilight  on  the  verandah.  For 
the  young  man  the  old  affection,  half  forgotten  and  obscured 
through  the  winter,  came  sweeping  back  with  tenfold 
strength,  a  great  flood-tide.  The  early  passive  acceptance 
was  gone ;  he  yearned  to  take  his  father's  burdens  on  his 
strong  shoulders  and  carry  them  for  him. 

"  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  the  far  West  to  leave  you 
here  ?  "  demanded  the  boy  one  night,  when  he  found  his 
father  writing  some  letters  of  inquiry  in  regard  to  a  new 
position  for  the  son.  "  Not  I.  I'll  break  stone  for  the 
roads  in  Winthrop  first.  Why,  you  can't  begin  to  take 
care  of  yourself." 

Even  the  mystery  of  Henry's  love-story  no  longer  formed 
a  veil  between  them.  The  young  man  started  awkwardly 
one  night  to  explain  the  situation  to  his  father. 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  281 

"  Don't,"  said  Alfred  Worthington,  putting  his  hand  on 
Henry's  knee.  "  Can't  you  see  that  I  understand  ?  " 

"  It  was  that  lecture  that  made  a  mess  of  it,"  said  Henry. 
"  It  is  all  over.  I  only  wanted  you  to  know." 

"  Wait,"  said  the  professor,  after  a  long  silence. 

Alfred  Worthington  was  working  hard,  too  hard.  He 
had  never  been  so  deeply  content  in  his  life.  There  was 
unlimited  leisure,  now,  for  that  unsolved  problem.  One 
afternoon  he  climbed  swiftly  up  the  laboratory  stairs  to  that 
long,  hot  room,  and  sat  down  at  his  microscope,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair  for  a  minute  before  beginning  to  work. 

He  went  back  in  thought  to  his  youth.  The  vague 
glory  of  those  early  ambitions  had  been  narrowed  down  to 
this  !  He  touched  his  instrument  lovingly,  and  smiled. 
Content  to  know,  if  he  could  find  it  out,  this  infinitesimal 
thing  —  he  who,  at  twenty-five,  had  stormed  the  heights 
of  science,  determined  to  know  all !  An  uneasy  feeling 
came  to  him.  He  was  afraid  that  not  enough  time  would 
be  left  him  to  find  out.  He  thought  of  his  mistakes,  his 
wasted  time,  and  he  envied  Henry  his  youth.  He  was 
young  and  strong,  with  the  road  all  before  him,  and  the 
light  of  the  east  on  his  forehead  still.  Alfred  Worthington 
felt  way-worn  and  weary,  in  the  memory  of  old  blunders 
and  defeats.  Henry's  present  problem  touched  him,  and 
left  him  untroubled.  If  all  this  meant  larger  life  for 
the  boy,  he  could  be  glad  of  the  separation  and  the  pain. 
He  could  not  understand,  but  that  brave,  boyish  soul, 
forcing  its  way  along  difficulties  —  he  could  trust  it  beyond 
his  reach.  There  was  a  photograph  of  Henry  on  his  desk, 
Henry  at  twenty,  the  head  slightly  thrown  back,  and  in 
the  eyes  the  look  of  one  who  enters  upon  a  race.  The 
professor  looked  at  it  and  smiled,  his  heart  full  of  the 
peace  of  letting  go. 

He  turned  to  his  work.  It  was  intolerably  hot.  Per- 
spiration was  running  down  his  forehead.  Meditating  on 
his  problem,  suddenly  he  thought  he  saw  a  new  solution 
and  he  jumped,  excited,  to  his  feet,  grasped  a  book,  and  sank 


282  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

back  again.  The  old  treacherous  heart-action  had  betrayed 
him  at  last. 

It  was  Warren  who  found  him  there.  Warren  had 
come  to  spend  the  evening  in  Lancaster  Place,  knowing 
that  Henry  was  away.  It  was  half-past  seven.  His  host 
was  not  yet  home.  Alarmed,  he  hastened  to  the  laboratory. 

11  Nobody  there,  sir,"  said  the  janitor. 

"  Let  me  in.     I'm  a  trustee,"  said  Warren,  angrily. 

He  climbed  the  stairs  in  the  darkness.  They  creaked 
disagreeably.  He  did  not  like  strange  places,  and  he  did  not 
like  the  dark,  but  he  pushed  open  his  friend's  door. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  at  this  time  of  night  ?  "  he 
asked,  looking  at  the  familiar  figure  in  the  chair. 

The  answering  silence  alarmed  him. 

He  walked  over,  touched  Worthington's  shoulder,  and 
looked  down.  God  was  merciful  to  Benedict  Warren.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  death,  and  death  wore  the 
face  he  loved  best. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

AT  your  breakfast,"  commanded  War- 
ren, sternly. 

Henry  looked  at  him  with  beseech- 
ing eyes. 

"  I  believe  I  have  a  cold,"  he  re- 
marked in  apology.  "  I'll  eat  my 
breakfast  to-morrow." 
Warren  sat  at  Henry's  left  and  poured  the  coffee.  Op- 
posite stood  the  professor's  empty  chair.  The  air  was 
close  and  heavy  in  the  darkened  room,  for  these  July  days 
were  days  of  burning  heat.  Henry  stirred  his  coffee,  and 
eyed  his  spoon ;  then  he  broke  a  roll  and  left  the  piece 
lying  on  his  plate.  His  face,  pale  in  the  wan  light,  was  like 
the  face  of  a  man  who  has  lived,  unwillingly,  through  long 
illness.  He  excused  himself  as  soon  as  possible  and  went 
into  the  library. 

Warren  looked  after  him,  shaking  his  head.  Henry's 
step  dragged,  and  his  shoulders  drooped,  as  if  he  were  old. 
It  was  a  sad  transformation  of  the  youth  who,  two  months 
before,  had  walked  with  head  erect,  an  indescribable  air  of 
health  and  joyousness  and  energy  about  him.  Warren 
thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  shrank  into  his  chair, 
resting  his  chin  upon  his  bosom.  This  sudden  paternity 
was  puzzling.  How  to  wear  the  cloak  of  responsibility 
that  had  fallen  upon  him  the  night  of  his  old  friend's  death 


284  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

—  this  had  been  the  burden  of  Warren's  thoughts  through 
all  the  intervening  days.  The  feeling  of  duty  had  crowded 
out  everything  else,  fighting  with  grief  for  the  possession 
of  his  soul. 

Practically  he  had  taken  up  his  abode  in  Lancaster  Place. 
He  did  not  sleep  there,  but  early  in  the  morning  nearly 
every  day  he  appeared,  demanding  his  breakfast.  Some- 
times he  turned  up  at  luncheon,  invariably  at  dinner.  The 
taking  of  three  regular  meals  a  day,  after  so  many  years  of 
desultory  domestic  life,  threatened  to  destroy  his  excellent 
health. 

He  realized  Henry's  existence  now.  On  that  June 
night  when  it  had  been  his  task  to  tell  the  boy  of  his 
father's  death,  he  saw  for  the  first  time  with  distinctness 
that  Henry  was  no  longer  a  child.  An  unjust  feeling  that 
that  sudden  death  was  all  Henry's  fault  had  lurked  in 
Warren's  bosom  ever  since  that  moment  of  discovery. 
He  fought  the  notion.  The  doctor  had  said  that  unusual 
physical  exertion  in  the  heat  was  the  sole  cause  of  the  col- 
lapse. He  had  been  expecting  it  for  years,  he  added,  and 
was  surprised  that  it  had  not  come  sooner.  He  laughed 
at  Warren's  hint  that  mental  disturbance  had  aided  the  dis- 
ease. In  Warren's  mind  the  ugly  thought  was  still  insis- 
tent. That  lay  at  the  root  of  his  increasing  kindness  to 
the  boy.  He  was  trying  to  stamp  out  that  suspicion,  and 
struggle  was  new  to  Benedict  Warren. 

Fierce  jealousy  had  flashed  into  Henry's  face  when  the 
news  had  been  brought  him.  To  his  dying  day,  Warren 
would  not  forget  that  look.  Why,  Henry  asked  himself, 
had  God  allowed  some  one  to  stand  at  that  moment  between 
his  father  and  himself?  His  eyes  should  have  been  the 
first  to  see.  It  was  Warren's  season  of  triumph,  though 
his  hawk-like  eyes  had  softened  with  pity  for  the  son.  Even 
in  his  extreme  grief  he  could  not  help  being  glad  that  the 
last  service  had  been  his. 

"  I've  known  Alfred  longer  than  that  boy  has,"  he  said 
to  himself. 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  285 

Warren  had  tried  to  be  father  and  mother  to  Henry  ever 
since.  He  had  assumed  command  of  the  house,  for  its 
young  master  was  stupefied  by  grief,  and  incapable  even  of 
realizing  what  was  going  on.  Warren  drew  a  deep  sigh 
and  thrust  his  hands  farther  into  his  pockets.  Here  he 
was  with  that  boy  on  his  hands.  What  could  he  do  ? 
The  old  clock  in  the  corner  ticked  away  an  hour  and  a 
half  while  the  foster-father  sat  and  meditated. 

Presently  he  rose  and  sauntered  out  of  the  house,  down 
the  walk,  and  away  to  his  own  home.  Half  an  hour  later 
he  was  walking,  clad  in  his  old  brown  fishing-suit  and 
carrying  a  rod  over  his  shoulder,  out  toward  Winthrop 
Heights.  He  was  not  going  fishing.  The  costume  had 
been  assumed  to  give  him  presence  of  mind,  for  he  was 
never  so  completely  himself  as  when  wearing  this  grotesque 
toggery. 

Any  other  man  would  have  taken  a  car.  Benedict 
Warren  walked.  Any  other  man  would  have  suffered 
from  the  heat.  Warren  gloried  in  it.  He  could  feel  it  in 
his  thin  wrists  and  ankles.  He  could  feel  it  on  his  moist 
forehead.  There  was  no  breeze  in  the  hot  July  air.  Be- 
yond the  marshes  the  sea  lay,  calm  as  the  sky,  and  more 
intensely  blue.  All  round,  the  hay  stood  piled  in  stacks, 
row  upon  row,  of  refreshing  green.  Here  and  there  a  great 
black  crow  stood  upon  the  hay,  panting,  open-beaked  in 
the  heat.  Warren  strode  on  past  the  meadows  to  the 
driveway,  a  dark  silhouette  against  the  blue  of  the  water 
and  the  green  of  the  land.  He  was  hurrying  to  set  right  a 
world  out  of  joint. 

He  passed  the  lodge  of  the  Gordon  estate  and  climbed 
the  hill.  The  great  house  was  quiet,  shaded  by  huge 
awnings  that  tried  to  take  the  place  of  trees.  Annice  was 
in  her  hammock  on  the  verandah,  a  slender  white  figure 
swaying  in  a  gossamer  web.  She  rose  when  she  saw  the 
approaching  guest  and  gave  him  her  hand.  She  knew  him. 
Everybody  knew  Benedict  Warren. 

"  Father  away  ?  "  asked  the  visitor. 


286  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  smiling.  "Won't  you  sit  down 
and  talk  to  me  ?  I'll  have  Ann  bring  you  some  lemonade." 

"  Don't  want  it,"  said  Warren.     "  It's  nasty  stuff." 

He  refused  the  offered  chair  and  sat  down  on  the  steps. 
His  fingers  sought  his  pocket  for  his  much-loved  pipe,  but 
he  resolutely  drew  them  away  from  the  temptation.  Few 
had  suspected  him  of  the  weakness,  but  nevertheless, 
Warren  had  certain  notions  of  his  own  regarding  manners. 
He  was  eying  Annice  sharply.  The  slight  hollows  of 
cheek  and  temple  and  the  deep  sadness  of  her  eyes  did  not 
escape  him. 

"  It's  of  no  consequence,"  he  said.  "  I  was  out  fish- 
ing." He  reddened  a  little  under  the  keen  glance  of  the 
girl's  eyes,  he,  who  had  not  blushed  for  forty  years  !  "  I 
thought  maybe  you  could  give  me  a  few  matches  to  light 
my  pipe." 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Annice,  laughing.  She  brought 
them  to  him  herself.  Warren  watched  her  as  she  went 
back  to  take  her  seat  in  the  hammock.  Almost  he  could 
understand  about  Henry.  To  be  sure,  anything  like  that 
would  be  in  the  way,  and  yet,  the  clear  face  with  its  shin- 
ing eyes,  and  the  smooth  hair  curving  on  the  forehead 
brought  back  a  feeling  he  half  remembered  from  his  own 
youth.  Those  fluttering  white  draperies  —  surely  some- 
where he  had  seen  the  like.  He  was  not  so  puzzled 
about  it  all  as  he  had  been  on  the  way  out.  He  would 
begin.  The  stern  jaw  quivered  twice. 

"  Fine  weather  we're  having,"  he  observed,  with  great 
effort. 

"  Very,"  said  Annice.  "  Have  you  caught  any  fish  ?  " 
There  was  mischief  as  well  as  pathos  in  her  eyes.  Warren 
was  uneasy.  Was  she  going  to  find  him  out  ? 

"  Not  yet,"  he  said.  "  It's  the  first  day  I've  been  out 
in  some  time.  Don't  seem  to  have  any  luck.  Maybe 
I've  got  my  hand  out.  I've  been  staying  —  "  he  hesitated, 
then  tried  again  —  "  with  Worthington's  son.  You  don't 
know  him,  I  believe." 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  28^ 

"A  little,"  said  Annice.  She  caught  her  breath  as  she 
spoke  and  looked  away. 

"  He's  had  a  hard  blow,"  said  Warren,  taking  off  his 
hat  and  mopping  his  forehead.  This  talking  about  other 
people's  feelings  was  as  bad  as  talking  about  one's  own  ! 
"  He's  a  fine  boy,"  added  the  schemer,  "  though  not  equal 
to  his  father.  Never  will  be  that,"  he  insisted,  with  sud- 
den treachery.  "  But  he's  a  good  lad.  Worthington's  son 
could  hardly  be  less  than  that." 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  Annice,  quietly.  She 
was  very  pale,  and  was  looking  steadily  toward  the  sea. 

"  I  presume  he  will  leave  Winthrop  presently."  Warren 
almost  groaned  as  he  jerked  out  the  remark.  This  was  a 
strange  girl,  who  could  not  take  the  initiative  even  to  the 
extent  of  asking  an  intelligent  question  !  "  Very  likely  he 
will  go  to  some  Western  college.  He  has  to  leave  Win- 
throp, you  know.  It  was  unfortunate,  and  hard  on  his 
father.  But  I  presume  he'll  accept  some  call  if  he's  well 
enough  to  go." 

The  bird-like  eyes  were  watching  the  girl  very  intently. 

"  Is  he  ill  ? "  demanded  Annice,  turning  swiftly  toward  him. 

"  Going  to  be,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Warren,  nodding  with 
an  expression  of  deep  satisfaction  that  seemed  brutal  under 
the  circumstances.  "  Can't  eat.  Can't  sleep.  Seems  to  be 
troubled  about  something.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  he'd  go  into 
melancholia.  I  presume,"  the  cords  stood  out  in  Benedict 
Warren's  throat,  and  the  corners  of  his  mouth  twitched, 
"  I  presume  he  feels  responsible  for  the  shock  to  his  father, 
feels  as  if  he'd  killed  him.  It  was  heart-disease,  you  know." 

"Oh,"  cried  the  girl.  "That's  horrible."  Her  face 
was  drawn  with  pain.  She  had  risen  and  was  looking  at 
Warren  with  eyes  that  shone  through  tears.  "  Couldn't 
you  tell  him  that  he  didn't  ?  " 

Warren  crossed  his  legs,  restless  and  uneasy.  He  was 
succeeding  beyond  his  expectations,  but  success  is  em- 
barrassing to  a  modest  man. 

"  Of  course  that  is  all  nonsense,"  he  said.     "  The  doctor 


288  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

says  so.  It  was  walking  too  far  that  did  it.  Just  physical." 
He  looked  at  Annice  as  if  he  expected  her  to  question  this, 
and  his  voice  was  very  emphatic.  "  The  doctor  has  told 
Henry  this  over  and  over,  but  he  is  unreasonable.  I've 
been  afraid  he'd  make  way  with  himself.  He  spends  half 
his  time  in  the  cemetery,  moping.  I  s'pose  being  asked  to 
resign  has  cut  him  up." 

"  He  was  right  to  do  and  say  what  he  did,"  said  Annice, 
firmly.  "  Don't  you  think  he  ought  to  have  done  it,  no 
matter  what  the  cost  was  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Warren,  sharply,  "  I  don't.  It  was  a  fuss 
about  nothing.  He  ought  to  have  held  his  tongue  and 
done  his  work  as  his  father  did  before  him.  Just  the  same, 
I've  got  the  boy  on  my  hands,  now  that  he  has  made  a 
mess  of  things.  He's  going  to  kill  himself  before  he  gets 
done.  Apparently  he  hasn't  got  anybody  in  the  world  to 
tend  him.  I  must  be  going." 

He  pulled  himself  into  a  standing  position,  the  motions 
of  his  long,  thin  frame  irresistibly  suggesting  a  jumping- 
jack  moved  by  strings.  Then  he  shouldered  his  fishing-rod 
and  sauntered  down  the  hill.  He  left  Annice  standing  on 
the  verandah,  looking  after  him  with  piteous  eyes.  Wander- 
ing near  the  shore,  he  sank  down  under  a  tree,  exhausted. 
It  was  the  hardest  day's  work  of  his  life.  Then  he  went 
to  sleep  with  his  dog  watching  over  him,  and  he  dreamed, 
in  the  hot  summer  sunshine,  that  he  and  Alfred  were  boys 
again.  They  were  climbing  Long  Meadow  Hill,  and  the 
air  was  warm.  Half  waking,  he  thought  of  his  future,  the 
lonely  life  in  his  old  house  where  Alfred  Worthington's 
footsteps  would  not  sound  again,  and  his  heart  cried  out  to 
the  rocks  and  the  trees  for  his  friend. 

It  was  observed  by  those  who  knew  Benedict  Warren 
in  after  years,  that  he  never,  after  Worthington's  death, 
seemed  to  have  any  more  wise  opinions  about  the  foolish- 
ness of  belief  in  an  after  life. 

Upon  the  verandah  Annice  swung  to  and  fro  in  her 
hammock.  The  sunshine  hurt  her,  and  the  beauty  of  grass 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  289 

and  sky  was  keen  pain.  She  had  deserted  in  his  hour  of 
supreme  trial  the  soul  that  needed  her  most.  She  had 
betrayed  a  great  trust.  Annice  buried  her  face  in  her  arms 
and  lay  quite  still,  while  memory,  like  an  angel  of  judgment, 
led  her  back  through  the  path  she  had  trodden  with  Henry. 
He  had  loved  her  as  no  woman  had  ever  yet  been  loved  — 
and  she  ?  She  had  thought  only  of  herself.  Because  he 
was  clear-sighted  and  strong  she  had  trusted  him  to  guide 
her  from  her  labyrinth.  She  had  kept  his  memory  with  her 
in  secret  through  the  days  and  nights  of  the  winter.  Then 
he  had  stormed  her  heart  and  taken  it,  and  she  had  yielded 
—  for  what  ? 

The  girl's  arms  quivered  a  little  under  her  hidden  face. 
It  was  for  his  help,  his  guidance  in  difficulty.  Never 
thinking  of  what  she  could  give,  but  always  of  what  she 
could  get,  she  had  been  guilty  of  spiritual  selfishness,  of  a 
mercenary  love  that  had  calculated  the  profit  to  her  own 
soul.  Henry  was  nobler  than  she,  how  much  nobler  she 
had  never  known  till  now.  As  she  lay  with  blinded  eyes 
there  came  to  her  a  passionate  perception  of  love  greater 
than  she  had  felt,  love  that  gave  and  asked  nothing,  sur- 
rendering itself  wholly  to  the  beloved. 

The  vistas  of  her  lost  Eden  opened  before  her.  She  sat 
up,  rigidly  erect,  with  strands  of  disordered  hair  floating 
about  her  cheeks,  and  the  print  of  the  rough  mesh  of  the 
hammock  on  her  forehead.  The  look  on  her  face  was  one 
for  which  a  man  might  well  wait  half  a  lifetime.  Oh,  she 
did  love  him,  with  a  love  that  was  beginning  and  end  of 
life.  Through  all  this  terrible  summer  the  very  winds  of 
heaven  had  fought  for  him ;  the  sunshine  had  been  his 
touch.  But  for  her  own  weakness  it  might  have  been  hers 
to  hold  that  beloved  head  close,  close  to  her  bosom,  letting 
her  kisses  fall  upon  the  eyelids,  shielding  it  from  disgrace. 

"  I  did  mean  it  then,  indeed  I  did,"  said  Annice  to  her 
father  that  afternoon.     "  But  I  have  had  a  long  time  to 
think  it  over,  and  I  see  that  I  was  hasty  and  wrong." 
u 


290  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

"  Wrong  ? "  demanded  Mr.  Gordon,  looking  up  from 
his  newspaper  with  a  scowl. 

"  Yes,"  said  Annice,  simply.  "  I  know  he  never  said 
that  thing,  and  I  love  him.  I  am  going  —  " 

44  You  are  going  to  ask  him  to  take  you  back  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  answered  the  girl. 

"  Now  that  he  has  insulted  your  father  and  disgraced 
himself,  so  that  he  hasn't  a  chance  to  earn  a  penny  —  " 

44  He  has  the  more  need  of  me,"  said  Annice,  softly. 

There  may  be  excuse  for  the  exasperation  of  Mr.  Gor- 
don, who  saw  in  his  daughter's  changes  of  mind  only  a 
woman's  wavering  will,  instead  of  a  love  as  great  as  the  love 
that  had  called  to  her  through  Henry  from  the  deeps  of 
things.  The  old  man's  anger  broke  into  self-pity. 

"You  care  about  everything  except  your  father,"  he 
muttered. 

44  I  do  care,  I  care  more  than  I  ever  did,"  pleaded  the 
girl.  "  I  am  just  beginning  to  find  out.  I  want  to  take 
care  of  you  always ;  only,  my  life  belongs  to  Henry." 

Mr.  Gordon  sat  like  a  figure  carved  in  stone.  It  had 
always  been  like  this !  One  brief  day  of  appreciation  had 
been  his  in  a  lifetime  of  under-estimation.  In  the  long 
silence  the  girl's  heart  beat  with  foreboding.  Mr.  Gordon 
looked  up  at  his  daughter  at  last.  In  anger  he  was  seldom 
so  calm. 

44  You  must  take  your  choice  between  that  young  man 
and  me.  If  you  marry  him  you  shall  not  have  a  cent  of 
my  money." 

The  unexpected  solution  of  the  old  problem  regarding 
money  brought  relief  to  the  girl.  She  stood  silent,  waiting. 

"  Make  up  your  mind,"  commanded  her  father.  His 
rigid  lips  did  not  quiver. 

44  It  is  made  up,"  said  Annice,  sadly,  as  she  moved  slowly 
toward  the  door.  4t  I  think  I  had  better  go  back  to  Mrs. 
Appleton.  Good-bye." 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  Father,"  came  a  voice  from  the  doorway,  quite  a  long 


HENRY  WORTHINGTON  291 

time  after.  "  I  will  come  back  whenever  you  need  me,  if 
you  want  me  to  come." 

Mr.  Gordon  did  not  turn  his  head.  There  was  no  re- 
lenting in  the  wistful  face  in  the  doorway.  Six  months 
ago  that  face  had  been  all  a  question.  It  was  an  answer 
now. 

It  had  been  an  unspeakable  relief  to  Henry  that  morn- 
ing to  see  Warren  go  away.  He  realized  the  efforts  that 
his  father's  friend  was  making  to  be  good  to  his  father's 
son,  but  Warren  knew  too  much,  was  too  near  the  sacred 
circle  to  be  welcome  now.  That  lean  figure  had  become 
to  the  boy  the  embodiment  of  his  own  remorse.  To  have 
this  spectre,  a  visible  reminder  of  his  guilt  toward  his  dead 
father,  following  him  even  to  his  own  table,  was  agony 
beyond  his  power  of  endurance. 

Endurance  was  all  that  was  left.  Of  the  past  as  of  the 
future  Henry  did  not  dare  think.  The  days  that  had  passed 
had  been  days  of  self-accusation,  broken  by  simple,  unre- 
flective  grief.  Henry  spent  as  many  hours  as  possible  with 
his  books,  some  in  walking,  the  rest  in  trying  to  sleep.  But 
in  sleep  there  was  no  rest.  Night  after  night  his  dreams 
were  full  of  the  old  debate  with  his  father.  He  could  see 
so  clearly  every  wrinkle  in  his  father's  face !  Sleeping, 
Henry  argued  both  sides  of  the  question,  and  woke,  now 
thinking  that  he  was  his  father,  now  realizing  his  own  per- 
sonality. In  either  case,  waking  brought  that  helpless 
feeling  of  being  unable  to  convince  his  opponent  that  he 
was  right. 

Go  in  whatever  direction  he  would  when  he  left  the 
house,  his  feet  always  carried  him  to  the  cemetery.  Be- 
hind its  high  walls  was  shelter.  From  the  real  or  the  fan- 
cied unfriendliness  of  people  about  him  he  took  refuge 
among  the  friendly  graves.  The  dead  forgive  always ; 
and  what  is  the  earth  anywhere  but  the  dust  of  the  merci- 
ful dead  ?  In  the  years  before  he  had  seldom  entered  the 
place.  He  had  known  it  chiefly  from  the  look  it  always 
brought  to  his  father's  face.  Now  he  had  learned  it  by 


292  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

heart.  He  had  spelled  out  a  score  of  old  inscriptions, 
almost  effaced  by  time.  He  had  studied  the  row  of  moss- 
green  stones,  removed  from  their  original  resting-places, 
and  standing  in  a  row  by  the  southern  wall.  Two  spots 
only  he  avoided.  One  was  the  place  where  his  father  lay 
buried.  The  other  was  the  lot  where  a  huge  granite  monu- 
ment stood,  bearing  the  name  "  Gordon."  One  side  bore 
the  inscription,  "  Ellen,  beloved  wife  of  Samuel  Gordon, 
in  the  46th  year  of  her  age."  Henry  had  come  upon  this 
suddenly  one  day,  and  had  retreated. 

To-day  he  started  seaward  as  was  his  wont,  but  the  air 
was  hot.  He  turned  back  and  found  himself  nearing,  by 
roundabout  paths,  the  place  he  had  determined  not  to 
approach.  The  pale  green  moss  stealing  across  the  rough 
stones  of  the  great  wall  seemed  almost  like  an  expression 
of  pity  in  hard  things.  The  tall  evergreens  were  solemn 
against  the  blue  above  that  line  of  stone.  Henry  entered 
through  the  arched  gateway  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  as  of  one 
who  lays  his  burdens  down. 

He  passed  the  old  sun-dial  that  had  told  time  —  or  eter- 
nity —  for  many  years.  A  group  of  children  were  playing 
near  it,  busy  with  the  old  work  of  imitation.  They  were 
laying  out  toy-cemeteries  on  a  flattened  grave,  using  sticks 
and  small  oblong  stones  for  the  purpose.  He  passed  them, 
wandering  aimlessly  through  the  quiet  paths.  Farther  on, 
a  group  of  workmen,  sitting  on  the  flat  gravestones,  were 
eating  bread  and  butter  for  their  noonday  luncheon.  Their 
tin  pails  rested  beside  them.  Their  blue  blouses  made  a 
vivid  spot  of  colour  in  the  encompassing  green.  Henry 
walked  on,  listening  to  the  chimes  that  told  the  hours  from 
the  great  tower  of  the  city-hall  near  by,  and  smiling  at  the 
great  care  taken  to  count  the  passing  of  time,  here,  where 
time  was  not. 

The  afternoon  shadows  had  begun  to  steal  along  the 
grass  when  he  found  himself  drawn  by  strong  impulse 
toward  the  forbidden  spot.  Before  he  was  aware  he  was 
standing  by  his  father's  grave.  He  sat  down  on  the  grass 


HENRY   WORTHINGTON  293 

close  by  it,  and  the  past  of  which  he  had  tried  not  to  think 
rushed  upon  him  in  an  agony  of  grief.  Oh,  it  was  all 
his  fault !  He  had  been  the  cause  of  his  father's  death. 
Throughout  the  winter  he  had  forgotten  that  father's  little 
needs,  the  book  he  had  wanted  in  the  evening,  the  paper 
he  had  asked  the  son  to  bring  from  down  town.  To 
the  penitent  at  this  moment  this  slight  neglect  seemed 
graver  than  his  greater  sin.  He  stretched  out  his  hand 
and  touched  the  broken  sod  over  the  grave.  It  was 
the  very  gesture  with  which  his  father  used  to  reach  out 
to  touch  his  son's  shoulder.  Henry  flung  himself  upon 
the  ground,  clasping  with  both  hands  the  warm  earth 
above  his  father's  dust. 

Oh,  the  pity  of  it !  So  great  a  pain  for  so  slight  a 
cause  !  All  had  slipped  away  from  him  :  home,  work,  his 
father,  Annice  —  what  was  left?  Saddest  of  all,  the 
chance  to  undo  that  great  hurt  had  slipped  away.  The 
vigorous  young  body  was  shaking  with  sobs.  Henry  had 
shed  no  tears  since  his  father's  death.  They  were  few 
now,  wrung  out  in  pain,  a  strong  man's  tears  for  the  two 
people  he  had  loved,  both  gone  beyond  his  touch. 

The  tears  brought  quiet,  and  the  quiet,  peace.  Slowly, 
through  the  pain,  there  came  to  him  a  sense  of  inner 
harmonies  in  jangling  things.  A  gleam  of  the  insight  that 
comes  through  suffering,  the  hope  worked  out  through 
struggle  were  his.  He  had  done  what  he  thought  was 
right.  If  he  had  done  less,  he  would  have  been  less  his 
father's  son.  Were  that  hard  decision  to  be  made  again, 
would  he  not  decide -in  the  same  way?  And  Annice  — 
Annice,  whose  accusation  had  been  so  cruelly  false,  to  her 
he  could  say  nothing  and  could  make  no  excuse.  Yet  she 
should  be  followed  still  by  that  encompassing  love  that  had 
striven,  perhaps  had  failed,  for  her.  There  was  a  sound 
somewhere  as  of  music,  music  of  an  eternal  order  of  things. 
He  rose  to  his  feet  and  squared  his  shoulders,  the  old  look, 
and  a  new  one  with  it,  in  his  face. 

A  flag  over  the  fresh  sod  of  a  soldier's  grave  caught  his 


294  HENRY   WORTHINGTON 

eye,  and  it  brought  back,  full  and  clear,  that  old  call  to 
action.  Yes,  he  had  something  left,  a  chance  to  stand  and 
say  again  the  thing  he  thought  was  true.  His  work  was 
there,  beyond  the  reach  of  death  and  change.  Henry 
turned  to  go,  almost  content. 

Then,  looking  up,  he  saw  Annice  coming  toward  him, 
stepping  softly  between  the  ranks  of  the  dead.  As  she 
neared  him,  both  hands  were  stretched  out,  and  her  face 
quivered. 

"  Henry,"  she  pleaded,  "  I  didn't  mean  it.  Forgive  me. 
I  know  better  now." 

There  was  silence.  Only  the  trees  rustled  with  a  motion 
of  life  among  the  leaves,  and  there  was  a  sound  in  the  air 
of  the  quick  wings  of  birds. 


"Pure  romance  of  the  most  captivating  order." 

—  BOSTON  HERALD. 


RICHARD  CARVEL. 

By  WINSTON  CHURCHILL, 

Author  of  "  The  Celebrity"  etc. 

Crown  8vo.    Cloth,  gilt  top.    $1.50. 


"The  portraits  of  Fox  and  his  boon  companions  are  cleverly 
drawn,  and  the  dissipated  world  in  which  they  live  is  sketched  with 
deftness.  ...  Its  plot  is  so  interesting,  its  'local  color'  is  so 
ably  handled." 

—  NEW  YORK  TRIBUNE. 

"  A  brilliant  tale,  .  .  .  vigorous,  delicate  in  fancy,  sentient  with 
the  qualities  which  make  life  worth  living.  It  is  a  great  story." 

—  BROOKLYN  EAGLE. 

"  It  is  a  historical  romance  of  revolutionary  days,  with  the  scenes 
laid  partly  in  Maryland  and  partly  in  the  London  of  George  III. 
In  breadth  of  canvas,  massing  of  dramatic  effect,  depth  of  feeling, 
and  rare  wholesomeness  of  spirit,  it  has  seldom  if  ever  been  sur- 
passed by  an  American  romance." 

—  CHICAGO  TRIBUNE. 

"  Mr.  Churchill  possesses  a  lightness  and  joyousness  of  style, 
tempered  with  sobriety  and  dignity,  that  is  altogether  charming. 
Richard  Carvel  is  a  work  that  will  securely  establish  the  author's 
fame,  and  it  is  destined  to  a  permanent  place  in  American  liter- 
ature." 

—  Sx.  Louis  GLOBE-DEMOCRAT. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,   NEW  YORK. 


THE    CELEBRITY 

AN  EPISODE 

BY 

WINSTON    CHURCHILL 


Crown  8vo.     Cloth.     $1.50 


The  Brooklyn  Eagle: 

"  One  of  the  best  stories  that  has  come  from  'the  presses  in  the  last  six 
months.  The  plot  is  novel,  the  central  idea  clear,  and  the  incidents  are 
worked  out  with  a  degree  of  skill  and  good  taste  that  are  eminently  satisfac- 
tory. Its  quiet  humor  is  one  of  its  best  qualities." 

Inter-Ocean,  Chicago: 

"  No  such  piece  of  inimitable  comedy  in  a  literary  way  has  appeared  for 
years.  ...  It  is  the  purest,  keenest  fun." 

Boston  Courier: 

"This  is  a  delightfully  entertaining  novel,  and  it  is  seldom  that  one  of 
such  masterly  qualities,  by  a  new  author,  wins  its  way  to  public  favor  as 
this  is  sure  to  do." 

Boston  Transcript: 

"  It  is  an  extremely  clever  piece  of  work  that  is  likely  to  be  as  popular  as 
it  deserves." 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
66   FIFTH   AVENUE 

NEW  YORK 


THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE 

BY 

JAMES    LANE  ALLEN 

Author  of  "Summer  in  Arcady"  Etc. 

WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  ORSON    LOWELL 

Cloth.    12mo.    $2.5O 


Buffalo  Commercial: 
44  Far  above  the  average  of  novels,  intrinsically  strong  and  meritorious." 

GEORGE  HAMLIN  FITCH: 
"  An  enormous  stimulus  to  all  that  is  highest  and  best  in  one's  nature." 

BLISS  CARMAN,  in  The  Evening  Transcript,  Boston : 

"There  are  two  chief  reasons  why  Mr.  Allen  seems  to  me  one  of  the 
first  of  our  novelists  to-day.  He  is  most  exquisitely  alive  to  the  fine  spirit  of 
comedy.  He  has  a  prose  style  of  wonderful  beauty,  conscientiousness,  and 
simplicity." 

Daily  Chronicle,  London: 

"Highly  praised  and  with  reason.  It  is  written  with  singular  delicacy, 
and  has  an  old  world  fragrance  which  seems  to  come  from  the  classics  we 
keep  in  lavender." 

The  Dial,  Chicago : 

"There  are  descriptive  passages  so  exquisitely  wrought  that  the  reader 
lingers  over  them  to  make  them  a  possession  forever;  there  are  inner  experi- 
ences so  intensely  realized  that  they  become  a  part  of  the  life  of  his  own  soul." 

HAMILTON  MABIE,  in  The  Outlook: 

"  One  reads  the  story  for  the  story's  sake,  and  then  re-reads  the  book  out 
of  pure  delight  in  its  beauty.  The  story  is  American  to  the  very  core.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Allen  stands  to-day  in  the  front  rank  of  American  novelists.  'The  Choir 
Invisible '  will  solidify  a  reputation  already  established  and  bring  into  clear 
light  his  rare  gifts  as  an  artist.  For  this  latest  story  is  as  genuine  a  work  of 
art  as  has  come  from  an  American  hand." 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
66   FIFTH   AVENUE 

NEW  YORK 


Men's  Tragedies* 

By  R.  V.  RISLEY. 
Cloth.    $1.50. 


"  They  are  masterpieces  in  tragedy  which  recall  some  of  the 
best  work  of  English  and  French  dramatic  romanticists."  — 
Boston  Herald. 

"It  is  invigorating  to  come  across  stories  of  such  grim 
strength."  —  Commerical  Advertiser. 

"  Thoroughly  deserving  of  admiration,  even  though  some  of 
them  are  rather  calculated  to  chill  the  blood  of  the  impressiona- 
ble reader." —  Troy  Times. 

"  Take  hold  on  the  imagination  irresistibly.  They  are  sure 
to  be  widely  read." —  Outlook. 

"  The  style  of  the  author  is  reminiscent  of  Robert  L.  Steven- 
son in  some  of  the  best  of  his  short  stories,  although  now  and 
again  there  is  a  touch  of  Poe.  Most  of  the  stories  have  that 
quality  generally  described,  for  want  of  a  better  word,  as  weird. 
It  is  safe  to  say  they  will  not  prove  less  interesting  for  want  of 
that  quality." —  Troy  Times. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


Tristram  Lacy: 

OR,    THE    INDIVIDUALIST. 

By  W.  H.  MALLOCK, 

Author  of  "  The  New  Republic,"  "  Is  Life  Worth  Living  7  "  "Aristocracy 
and  Evolution,"  "  Labor  and  the  Popular  Welfare"  etc. 

Cloth.    $1.50. 


"This  story  is  sure  to  be  widely  read,  to  be  made  the 
theme  of  much  criticism  and  discussion,  and  is  altogether  the 
most  noticeable  work  of  fiction  that  the  season  of  1899  has 
brought  out."  —  Buffalo  Commercial. 

This  is  an  uncommonly  interesting  book  of  its  kind.  It 
has  a  purpose  besides  furnishing  entertainment,  to  be  sure,  but 
Mr.  Mallock  when  he  writes  always  has  a  more  or  less  serious 
purpose.  .  .  .  Biting  satire  and  occasional  flashes  of  wit,  give 
the  book  a  sparkle  not  often  found  in  books  of  this  character. 
—  Commercial  Advertiser. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


The  Maternity  of  Harriott  Wickeru 


By  MRS.  HENRY   DUDENEY. 
12mo.     Cloth.    $1.50. 


"Tragical  and  pathetic  from  start  to  finish  ...  it  holds  the  reader  with  a 
terrible  fascination."  —  Evening  Telegraph,  Philadelphia. 

"A  remarkably  powerful  novel."  —  Boston  Courier. 

"  Beyond  the  commonplace  standards  of  the  mere  novel  of  incident."  —  New 
York  Tribune. 

A  powerful  story  of  the  life  of  a  woman  who  carries  in  her  blood  the  heredi- 
tary taint  of  several  generations  of  degenerate  ancestors.  It  is  a  fascinating, 
remorseless  study,  but  it  is  at  the  same  time  so  cleanly  done  that  it  is  very  far 
removed  from  the  realism  of  the  modern  kind.  Herein  perhaps  lies  its  charm. 
One  cannot  put  the  book  down.  It  is  insistent  in  its  demand  for  the  reader's 
keenest  interest. 

This  skilful  handling  of  a  subject  which  is  generally  treated  in  such  a  way 
that  it  becomes  unreadable  is  an  entirely  new  thing  in  modern  fiction. 

"  It  proves  to  be  a  remarkably  powerful  novel  from  beginning  to  end.  .  .  . 
The  author  is  certainly  venturesome,  but  the  story  proves  conclusively  that 
the  venture  was  worth  the  trial,  as  the  reader  will  find  an  enchantment  all 
through  the  story  that  is  very  difficult  to  break  away  from  even  after  the  book 
is  laid  aside.  Altogether  this  novel  is  a  notable  one,  and  is  sure  to  be  widely 
and  interestedly  read."  —  Boston  Courier. 


Jesus  Delaney* 

By  JOSEPH  GORDON  DONNELLY, 

Formerly  Consul-General  in  Mexico  for  the  United  States, 
Cloth.    $1.50. 


"  Unusually  interesting."  —  Commercial  Advertiser,  N.Y. 

"  Unique  and  truly  captivating."  —  Boston  Courier. 

"  Bright  and  breezy." —  Times-Herald,  Chicago. 

"  Unconventional  and  thoroughly  Mexican."  —  The  Sentinel,  Milwaukee. 

"  Mr.  Donnelly  gives  his  readers  satire  occasionally,  keen  as  a  razor,  always 
clear  as  day,  and  occasionally  a  bit  of  humor  as  delicious  as  it  is  uncommon." 
—  Denver  Times. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


"ANOTHER  BEWITCHING   ROMANCE" 
—  The  Times,  New  York 


THE  PRIDE  OF  JENNICO 

BEING  A  MEMOIR  OF  CAPTAIN  BASIL  JENNICO 
BY 

AGNES  and   EGERTON  CASTLE 

x6mo.     Cloth.    $1.50 


"  Picturesque  in  literary  style,  rich  in  local  color,  rising  at  times  almost  to  tragic 
intentness,  and  bristling  throughout  with  dramatic  interest."—  The  Record,  Philadelphia. 

"  There  is  a  wealth  of  historic  detail  which  lends  an  interest  to  the  story  apart  from 
the  romantic  love  affair  between  Captain  Jennico  and  the  Princess  Marie  Ottilie  of  Lausitz. 
The  hero's  great-uncle  had  been  one  of  those  lucky  English  adventurers  whose  Catholic 
religion  and  Jacobite  leanings  had  debarred  him  from  promotion  at  home,  and  who  had 
found  advancement  in  the  service  of  Austria,  and  wealth  with  the  hand  of  a  Bohemian 
heiress.  Such  chances  were  not  uncommon  with  'Soldiers  of  Fortune'  in  the  times  of 
Queen  Anne  and  the  early  Georges.  At  his  uncle's  death,  Captain  Basil  Jennico  became 
the  possessor  of  many  millions  (reckoned  by  the  florins  of  that  land),  besides  the  great 
property  of  Tollendahl  —  fertile  plains  as  well  as  wild  forests,  and  of  the  isolated  frowning 
castle  of  Tollendahl  with  its  fathom-thick  walls,  its  odd  pictures  of  half-savage  dead  and 
gone  Woschutzkis,  its  antique  clumsy  furniture,  tapestries,  trophies  of  chase  and  war. 
He  became  master,  moreover,  of  endless  tribes  of  dependents,  heiducks  and  foresters; 
females  of  all  ages  whose  bare  feet  in  summer  pattered  oddly  on  the  floors  like  the  tiead 
of  animals,  whose  high  boots  in  winter  clattered  perpetually  on  the  sione  flags  of  stairs 
and  corridors;  serf  peasants,  factors,  overseers,  the  strangest  mixture  of  races  that  can 
be  imagined;  Slovacks,  Bohemians,  Poles,  to  labor  on  the  glebe;  Saxons  or  Austrians  to 
rule  over  them  and  cipher  out  rosters  and  returns;  Magyars  who  condescended  to  manage 
his  horse-flesh  and  watch  over  his  safety  if  nothing  else;  the  travelling  bands  of  gypsies, 
ever  changing,  but  never  failing  with  the  dance,  the  song  and  the  music,  which  was  as 
indispensable  as  salt  to  the  life  of  that  motley  population. 

"  The  story  is  largely  historical,  both  German  and  English  elements  entering  into  it. 
The  scene  changes  from  the  old  castle  of  Tollendahl  to  an  English  country  house  and 
London  club,  always  maintaining  its  old  world  flavor." 

"  The  tale  is  gracefully  told,  and  owing  partly  to  this  fact  and  to  the  novelty  of  the 
setting  given  to  Basil  Jennico's  amazing  experience,  it  gains  for  itself  a  place  apart.  .  .  . 
It  is  an  artistic  production  and  it  is  original." —  Tht  York  Tribune. 

"  One  of  the  newest  and  best  novels  of  the  decade."—  The  Budget  (Boston). 

"  No  such  piece  of  inimitable  comedy,  in  a  literary  way,  has  appeared  for  years."  — 
Tht  Inttr-Octan  (Chicago). 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,   NEW  YORK 
Chicago  Boston  San  Francisco 


CROWNED   BY   THE   LONDON   ACADEMY 
as  one  of  the  three  most  important  books  published  during  the  year  1898 


THE  FOREST  LOVERS 

By  MAURICE    HEWLETT 

Author  of  "Earth  Works  out  of  Tuscany,"  "Pan  and  the  Young 
Shepherd,"  etc. 

Cloth.     i2mo.    $1.50 


JAMES   LANE   ALLEN   says: 

"  This  work,  for  any  one  of  several  solid  reasons,  must  be  regarded  as 
of  very  unusual  interest.  In  the  matter  of  style  alone,  it  is  an  achievement, 
an  extraordinary  achievement  .  .  .;  in  the  matter  of  interpreting  nature 
there  are  passages  in  this  book  that  I  have  never  seen  surpassed  in  prose 
fiction." 

HAMILTON  W.    MABIE   says: 

"The  plot  is  boldly  conceived  and  strongly  sustained;  the  characters 
are  vigorously  drawn  and  are  thrown  into  striking  contrast.  ...  It  leads 
the  reader  far  from  the  dusty  highway;  it  is  touched  with  the  penetrating 
power  of  the  imagination;  it  has  human  interest  and  idyllic  loveliness."  — 
Book  Reviews. 

The  New  York  Tribune  says: 

"  A  series  of  adventures  as  original  as  they  are  romantic.  ...  '  The 
Forest  Lovers  '  is  a  piece  of  ancient  arras;  a  thing  mysteriously  beautiful, 
a  book  that  is  real  and  at  the  same  time  radiant  with  poetry  and  art.  '  The 
Forest  Lovers '  will  be  read  with  admiration  and  preserved  with  something 
more  than  respect." 

The  Outlook  calls  it : 

"  A  story  compounded  of  many  kinds  of  beauty.  It  has,  to  begin  with, 
enchanting  beauty  of  background;  or  rather,  it  moves  through  a  beauti- 
ful world,  the  play  of  whose  light  upon  it  is  subtle,  beguiling,  and  magical." 


THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


Hugh  Gwyeth, 

By  BEULAH   MARIE   DIX. 
Third  Edition.    Cloth.    $1.50. 


That  the  first  work  of  an  unknown  young  author  should  reach 
a  third  edition  in  three  weeks  of  publication  confirms  the  opinion 
of  the  critics  who  call  it :  — 

"  Well-written  and  stirring."  —  The  Press,  Philadelphia. 

"  The  story  is  valuable.  .  .  .  One  is  continually  impressed 
by  the  commendable  purity  of  the  work,  and  the  tonic  and 
bracing  quality  of  its  atmosphere."  —  Literature. 

"  Engrossingly  interesting."  —  Boston  Courier. 


The  Short  Line  War* 

By  MERWIN-WEBSTER. 
Second  Edition.    Cloth.    $1.50. 

The  first  edition  was  exhausted  on  the  third  day  after 
publication. 


"  Exceedingly  interesting."  —  Chicago  News. 

"A    rattling    good    railroad    story."  —  Evening  Telegraph. 
Philadelphia. 

"  Breezy,  up-to-date ;  ...  the  best  of  its  kind."  —  Spring- 
field Republican. 

"  One  of  the  most  readable  of  this  season's  summer  novels." 
—  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"  A  capital  story  of  adventure  in  the  field  of  railroading."  — 
Outlook.  

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


A  NEW  EDITION 

ROSE  OF   DUTCHER'S  COOLLY 

BY 

HAMLIN   GARLAND 
Cloth.     i2ino.     $1.50 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HO  WELLS 

"  I  cherish  with  a  grateful  sense  of  the  high  pleasure  they  have 
given  me  Mr.  Garland's  splendid  achievements  in  objective 
fiction." 

THE   CRITIC 

"  Its  realism  is  hearty,  vivid,  flesh  and  blood  realism,  which 
makes  the  book  readable  even  to  those  who  disapprove  most 
conscientiously  of  many  things  in  it." 

THE  NEW  AGE 

"  It  is,  beyond  all  manner  of  doubt,  one  of  the  most  powerful 
novels  of  recent  years.  It  has  created  a  sensation." 

KANSAS  CITY  JOURNAL 

"After  the  fashion  of  all  rare  vintages  Mr.  Garland  seems  to 
improve  with  age.  No  more  evidence  of  this  is  needed  than 
a  perusal  of  his  '  Rose  of  Butcher's  Coolly.'  One  might  sum 
up  the  many  excellences  of  the  entire  story  by  saying  that  it 
is  not  unworthy  of  any  American  writer." 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
66   FIFTH   AVENUE 

NEW   YORK 


By  GEORGE  D.  LESLIE 

Letters  of  an  artist  and  born  naturalist 


Letters  to  Marco 

By  George  D.  Leslie,  R.A.     With  illustrations  by  the  author. 

GUt  top.  $1.50 

"  Mr.  Leslie  has  the  enchanted  vision  of  a  born  naturalist,  and  a 
fascinating  way  of  telling  what  he  sees  the  beasts  and  birds  doing, 
also  what  they  and  the  plants  talk  about  from  spring  till  autumn." 

—  The  Outlook. 

"Alluring  reading."  —  The  American,  Philadelphia. 

Riverside  Letters 

A  Continuation  of  "Letters  to  Marco"  by  George  D.  Leslie, 
R.A.,  with  his  own  illustrations.  Cloth,  $2.00 

"  A  welcome  and  delightful  volume.  It  deserves  to  rank  with  the 
chosen  studies  of  Thoreau,  Burroughs,  and  Miller." 

—  Evening  Bulletin,  Philadelphia. 


On  the  Broads 

By  Anna  Bowman  Dodd,  author  of  "Cathedral  Days,"  etc. 
With  illustrations  by  JOSEPH  PEN  NELL.  Small  4to,  $3.00 

"  Essentially  an  out-door  book.  The  exhilaration  of  Norfolk 
breezes  is  in  its  pages,  the  beauty  of  the  Norfolk  landscape  is  present 
in  every  chapter."  —  The  Tribune,  New  York. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,   NEW  YORK. 


Our  Gardens 


By   S.  Reynolds    Hole,  author  of  "A   Book   about   Roses," 
"  Memories  of  Dean  Hole,"  "  More  Memories,"  etc. 

Cloth.     $3.00 

With  the  most  charming  illustrations  of  "The  Deanery  Garden," 
with  a  wealth  of  practical  suggestion  to  the  gardener,  it  is  overrunning, 
too,  with  bits  for  those  who  echo  the  question  of  the  genial  Dean's 
visitor  —  "  What  is  a  garden  for  ?  For  the  soul,  sir !  for  the  soul  of  the 
poet !  .  .  ."  —  and  like  each  of  his  earlier  reflective  volumes  it  may  be 
described  as,  — 

"  Charming  from  cover  to  cover,  crammed  with  anecdote,  story, 
reminiscence,  reflection."  —  Evening  Transcript,  Boston. 

"  Full  of  the  ripe  wisdom  and  cheery  philosophy  of  a  fascinating 
personality." —  The  Daily  Telegraph,  Philadelphia. 


From  a  New  England  Hillside 

NOTES  FROM  UNDERLEDGE.    By  William  Potts. 

Cloth.    75  cents 

"  But  the  attraction  of  Mr.  Potts'  book  is  not  merely  in  its  record  of 
the  natural  year.  He  has  been  building  a  house.  .  .  .  He  has  been 
digging  a  well,  and  the  truth  which  he  has  found  at  the  bottom  of  that 
he  has  duly  set  forth.  .  .  .  And,  moreover,  he  sometimes  comes  back 
to  the  city,  and  he  writes  pleasantly  of  his  New  York  club,  the  Century. 
Last,  but  not  least,  there  are  lucubrations  on  a  great  many  personal 
and  social  topics,  in  which  the  touch  is  light  and  graceful  and  the 
philosophy  is  sound  and  sweet." — Standard  Union,  Brooklyn. 


The  Friendship  of  Nature 

A  New  England  Chronicle  of  Birds  and  Flowers. 

By  Mabel  Osgood  Wright.  75  cents 

"  A  dainty  little  volume,  exhaling  the  perfume  and  radiating  the 
hues  of  both  cultivated  and  wild  flowers,  echoing  the  songs  of  birds, 
and  illustrated  with  exquisite  pen  pictures  of  bits  of  garden,  field,  and 
woodland  scenery."  —  Dispatch. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,   NEW  YORK 


FOR  LOWERS  OF  OUTDOOR  LIFE 


Elizabeth  and  her  German  Garden 

Cloth.     $1.75 
"A  charming  book."  —  Literature. 

"'A  German  Garden'  emits  a  flower-like  aroma  of  freshness  and 
purity."  —  KATE  SANBORN. 

"  We  find  ourselves  in  the  presence  of  a  whimsical,  humorous,  cul- 
tured, and  very  womanly  woman,  with  a  pleasant,  old-fashioned  liking 
for  homeliness  and  simplicity,  with  a  wise  husband,  three  merry  babies 
...  a  few  frienils,  a  gardener,  an  old  German  house  to  repose  in,  a 
garden  to  be  happy  in,  an  agreeable  literary  gift,  and  a  slight  touch  of 
cynicism.  Such  is  Elizabeth.  It  is  a  charming  book."  —  The  Academy. 

"Elizabeth  .  .  .  prevails  upon  her  husband — The  Man  of  Wrath  — 
to  let  her  go  down  to  an  old  neglected  country-seat  on  the  Baltic,  and 
fix  things  up  to  suit  herself.  For  one  thing,  she  resolves  to  have  a 
garden.  On  this  matter  of  a  garden,  she  has  plenty  of  ideas  but  no 
experience,  and  she  undertakes  to  realize  them  by  the  aid  of  a  gardener 
who  has  experience  but  no  ideas,  except  the  general  one  that  Eliza- 
beths are  stupid.  Her  struggles  with  the  stupidity  of  man  and  the 
perversity  of  nature  are  amusingly  told."  —  The  Nation. 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR— JUST  READY 

The  Solitary  Summer 

By  the  author  of  "  Elizabeth  and  her  German  Garden  " 

Cloth.    $1.50 

"A  continuation  of  that  delightful  chronicle  of  days  spent  in  and 
about  one  of  the  most  delightful  gardens  known  to  modern  literature. 
The  author's  exquisite  humor  is  ever  present,  and  her  descriptions  .  .  . 
have  a  wonderful  freshness  and  charm." 

"  Perhaps  even  more  charming  than  the  fascinating  original,  which 
is  saying  a  great  deal."  —  The  Glasgow  Herald. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


By  ALFRED  AUSTIN 

A  poet's  expression  of  bis  love  for  nature 


Lamias*  Winter  Quarters 

By  Alfred  Austin,  Poet  Laureate,  author  of  "The  Garden  that 
I  Love,"  "In  Veronica's  Garden,"  etc.  Cloth.  $2.50 

"The  sequel  to  that  most  fascinating  piece  of  prose  poetry,  'The 
Garden  that  I  Love.'  "  —  Literature. 

"  Beautiful  as  the  book  is  in  its  phrasing  and  expression,  there  is  a 
still  lovelier  beauty,  —  in  the  pure  and  elevated  sentiment  on  which  it 
is  founded."  —  The  Tribune,  Chicago. 


By  the  same  author 

In  Veronica's  Garden  Buckram,  $2.50 

"There  is  much  wisdom  in  the  little  book  and  engaging  bits  of 
poetic  imagination."  —  The  Tribune,  New  York. 

The  Garden  that  I  Love          c^  $2.50 


"  Mr.  Austin  has  added  a  pleasing  and  instructive  volume  to  the 
literature  of  the  garden."  —  The  Critic. 


just  ready 
Jess  ?    Bits  of  Wayside  Gospel 

By  Jenkins  Lloyd  Jones,  joint  author  with  WILLIAM  C.  GAN- 
NETT of  "  The  Faith  that  Makes  Faithful." 

A  series  of  out-of-doors  studies  by  one  who  has  been  accustomed  to 
spend  his  vacations  afoot  or  on  horseback;  a  book  to  be  read  when 
one  is  under  the  trees  or  would  be  there. 


THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY, 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


III..,.      .-v 


Will 


